


Tell Me I'm Here

by indoorbutch



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 85,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28396857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indoorbutch/pseuds/indoorbutch
Summary: Therese takes a job at the local holiday market, hoping to bring in a little extra money. She never expects to meet a woman who will change her life forever.
Relationships: Carol Aird/Therese Belivet
Comments: 670
Kudos: 616





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All right, kids, let's try this AU thing! This will not be a strict retelling of Carol, but you'll see my reimagining of several classic moments. Drop me a comment to let me know if you like where it's going!

Therese knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, but then again… she really doesn’t want to be here.

She was out til 2:00 last night, working her first shift at a new job uptown. It’s her second bartending job, but this new place is a lot higher class than the dive bar where she worked through undergrad. Lots of rich Wall Street guys. Lots of assholes. That may be why she’s particularly irritated to be out at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. This weekend gig is at a holiday market in the West Village. Which means more rich assholes.

Therese savors the coffee she bought on the way over, hot and full of very necessary caffeine. She looks around at the sleepily awakening market. It would be one thing if Therese was renting out one of the booths (selling her photographs? she gets embarrassed just imagining it) but in fact she’s working for the market itself, the information booth. Richard’s father has a stand in the food court and got him the job, and Richard got her the job, but Richard called in sick this morning. So, it’s just her in the booth, stuck under the assessing and endlessly dissatisfied eye of her supervisor, Mrs. Hendrickson. Mrs. Hendrickson wears horn-rimmed glasses and a poodle skirt; she is that particularly irritating brand of hipster who dresses like it’s the 1950s.

Even worse, when Therese showed up fifteen minutes ago, Mrs. Hendrickson presented her with a Santa Hat.

“All the market staff wear them,” she announced, her tone and glare suggesting that this hat was a hill she would die on.

Oddly enough for a hipster, Mrs. Hendrickson gives Therese major “War on Christmas” and “Fox New” vibes. So now Therese is wearing a Santa Hat, and questioning all her life choices. At least it’s $12 an hour. With what she makes today, she’ll be able to pay the repair bill for her camera, which has been sitting in the shop waiting for her for four days. Therese feels naked without it.

 _It’s just a six-hour shift,_ she tells herself grimly. _You can survive a six-hour shift, go home, get some sleep, eat something, and be ready for the bar at 8:00._

The market opens right at 7:30, and soon the patrons start trickling in. It’s mostly Lululemon moms and older couples, everybody searching for that perfect artisan knife set, that bespoke pocket watch, that handmade piece of jewelry—all ethically sourced and overpriced and a surefire way to show your loved one that you went above and beyond Amazon this year.

Therese, fully aware that she is being a snob, reminds herself that she plans to buy Richard’s gift here. He’s a hobby painter and there’s a booth that sells watercolors and handmade brushes. Therese gets a 20% discount for working here, and she knows the gift will be a hit. She’s just not quite sure why she cares about that.

It’s not that Richard isn’t nice. All her boyfriends have been nice. Unlike a lot of the other girls, she grew up with, she’s got a good eye for closet abusers and controlling assholes. But after six months of dating Richard and hearing from all and sundry how _nice_ he is, she’s beginning to wonder if _not_ being an overt jerk is too low a bar to have set herself. Dannie certainly seems to think so, a fact he made clear in their most recent conversation.

“When are you gonna dump that guy? Sure, he’s cute, but _man_ is he boring. Let me find you someone with a personality at least.”

“All the guys you know are gay.”

“I know _several_ bisexuals and I’ll bet you cash money they give better head than Richard. No one gives head like a queer. It’s our greatest talent.”

Just remembering brings a smirk to Therese’s lips. It would be hard to be worse at giving head than Richard, but still… her smirk fades to a frown. He _is_ nice. And it’s not like anyone else is interviewing for the job of boyfriend. Therese wishes that didn’t matter to her. Wishes that she could just be single, but she’s living alone for the first time in her life and it’s… lonely. No, that’s not a good enough reason to be in a relationship. But is it a good enough reason to avoid the monumental awkwardness of breaking up with someone?

Over the loudspeaker, Mrs. Hendrickson’ performatively cheery voice reminds the shoppers about the reusable bag policy, calls out a few specific sellers (who paid extra for the advertisement), and directs all patrons with questions to the information booth in the center of the market. Therese shakes herself out of her morose thoughts, stands up straighter, and tries to look as if she’ll have information, should anyone need it.

And that’s when she sees her.

There’s a booth about ten feet away, a ceramics maker whose shelves of teapots, cups, and dishware caught Therese’s eye on the way in this morning, everything beautifully minimalist. But it’s not the ceramics that have her attention now. No, it’s the woman who stands before the shelves, gazing at the maker’s wares with an expression that Therese instantly recognizes: the expression of one who is looking, but not seeing. Whose thoughts are a thousand miles away.

Therese, on the other hand, is looking _and_ seeing. She feels like she has never seen anything so clearly in her life. The woman is… she is absolutely breathtaking. Tall, and statuesque. Slender but not petite; something stately and powerful in her shoulders, in her long legs, in the hand that brushes back a sweep of her blonde hair. She’s dressed like a movie star: a large, expensive-looking handbag on one arm; black jeans and black riding boots; a white blouse unbuttoned at the throat to reveal the glitter of jewelry; and a thigh-length, camel-colored wool coat that would look unattractively boxy on so many women. On her, it simply compounds the impression of someone powerful and elegant and refined. Therese can’t stop staring.

The woman looks up, as if sensing eyes on her. Their gazes lock. Even at the distance, Therese can tell her eyes are pale, maybe blue? Her expression doesn’t change, even as their stare holds for two, three seconds, and then—

“Excuse me?”

Therese startles, turns toward a woman with a toddler in her arms, who stands before her looking harried.

“Where’s the bathroom, honey?” she asks.

Therese points toward one of the exit signs. “If you go out that door and make a right, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling gratefully, and walks off.

Therese’s eyes flash back toward the ceramics booth—but she’s gone. Amidst the maze of booths, it’s easy for someone to disappear, and yet Therese looks all around, hoping for another glimpse. But no, she’s nowhere to be seen. Something happens in Therese’s chest, a weight settling there, sinking down into her stomach. She can’t understand her own reaction, her disappointment, her sudden… anxiousness, as if in the woman she saw something she had been looking for all morning, and now—

“Ms. Belivet?”

The sharp voice startles her, and there is Mrs. Hendrickson, looking at her disapprovingly and then nodding toward the short line of customers that seem to have appeared out of nowhere in front of the information booth. The last thing Therese needs is for her other shifts at the market to get cut. She blinks, shoving away thoughts of the woman, and turns toward the surly-looking man in the front of the line.

After that, things pick up. There seems to be no end of patrons, wanting to know where the ATM is, where the bathroom is, how to find this booth, or that booth. A half hour goes by in a blink, and just as the line has finally shrunk away, Therese turns to replenish the stack of pamphlets on the counter—and knocks her coffee onto the ground.

“Shit,” she hisses, dropping down behind the counter in a panic. Luckily the cup was almost empty. She grabs paper towels from under the counter, rushing to mop up the spill before Mrs. Hendrickson gets back. Damn it, she wanted the rest of that coffee! But at least she hasn’t dropped it on anything important. She quickly has the mess cleaned up, stands to dump the soiled towels in the garbage, faces forward again.

“I wonder if you might help me with something.”

Therese goes stock still. It’s her. She’s standing before the booth with a vague smile, slightly distracted. She lays a pair of buttery leather gloves on the counter, looking at Therese expectantly.

“I’m looking for a booth a friend of mine told me about,” says the woman. “A—oh, what do they call it? A maker, yes. Handmade dolls. Here’s the card my friend gave me.”

She holds out a business card to Therese, who takes it after a beat of startled silence, and looks at the name.

“Oh,” she says. “Bright Betsy. Yes, she’s very popular. But I’m afraid she sold out her stock yesterday. She’s not here this morning.”

A look of defeat fills the woman’s eyes (gray, her eyes are gray, pale as moonstone).

“Oh,” she says. “Left it too long.”

Her disappointment is so _deep_ , almost reproachful, and Therese is desperate to help. “Well, there are other toymakers here,” she says, grabbing for one of the pamphlets. “All kinds, actually—”

“Right,” says the woman, looking away, rifling through her purse. She pulls out, of all things, a vape pen, and says, “The doll was supposed to be for my daughter. What sort of doll did you want when you were four?”

It’s not clear if she’s actually asking, or just thinking out loud. Therese says, “Me? I never… Not many, to be honest.” The woman seems about to take a drag from her pen, and wincing Therese tells her, “I’m sorry, you’re not allowed to smoke inside the market.”

For the first time, the woman looks into her eyes. She seems startled. She glances down at the pen in her hand, as if she didn’t even realize she had it, and puts it away, muttering, “Oh. Of all the—” she stops herself, and looks at Therese regretfully, “Forgive me. Shopping makes me nervous.”

How could anything make this woman nervous? She’s like a goddess. The market should pay her to stand her and smoke and attract customers. 

“That’s all right,” Therese tells her. “Working here makes me nervous.”

A short laugh. It goes through Therese like a lightning bolt, and nervously she smiles back. The woman says, “You’re very kind. I know how silly it is, shopping the weekend before Christmas.”

“Oh,” Therese releases her own short laugh. “I haven’t done any of my own shopping yet.”

“Haven’t you?” asks the woman, looking almost relieved—as if hearing that she isn’t alone in this matter is enough to squash her guilt over missing the dollmaker. She looks at Therese keenly, her head tilting a little. Therese realizes that this is the moment when she is supposed to say more, but all she can think about is that she actually has hardly anyone to shop for besides Richard, and she can’t say that without sounding pathetic, and anyway— “What did you want, when you were little? If not a doll?”

Therese is inexplicably delighted that the woman heard what she said (she had thought she wasn’t even listening) and with a sudden smile she admits, “A train set.”

The woman’s brows lift in surprise. “Really? Do children even play with trainsets? That seems like an… I don’t know, sort of old-fashioned toy?”

“Did you ever hear of the brand Brio?” asks Therese. A frowning look. “They make train track pieces, so you can build your own tracks, and they make trains to go with it.”

A light of recognition, “Oh, yes! With the little magnets to keep the cars together?”

“Yes. I loved those, growing up. And there’s a maker here who creates her own. The tracks aren’t all that special, of course, but she sells beautiful hand-painted cars and figurines to go with the trains. I can show you on the map where the booth is, if you like?”

“Yes, please!”

Therese’s heart flutters with excitement that she can’t understand. Quickly she opens up the pamphlet, laying it out in front of the woman so she can see the map and the little You Are Here circle in front of the Information booth. Together they lean over the map, and Therese points out the train maker’s booth, not far away. To be honest, she’s surprised she can even speak to give directions. The woman emits a delicious perfume like none Therese has smelled before, warm and spicy, and the woman’s hands, laid on the counter, are tipped with coral nail polish. It’s a color Therese would never pick for herself, and yet on the woman’s long fingers, it looks so elegant.

“Well,” she says, standing up again and looking at Therese with a vibrant smile. “That’s that. Sold. Do you mind if I take this map with me?”

Her smile is so…fucking… beautiful.

The fine eyebrows lift in curiosity, and, mortified, Therese realizes that she hasn’t answered the question.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Yes! Here.”

They exchange the pamphlet. The woman’s smile has become a full-fledged grin, so arresting that Therese thinks her heart is about to jump out of her chest. The woman asks, with a commiserating twinkle in her eye, “It’s a rotten job, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Therese says without thinking; the brows lift in delight at her honestly and she’s quick to add, “I mean, it’s not so bad. When it’s slow I just sit back here and read.”

“Oh?” she asks, genuinely interested. “What are you reading?”

“Uh—right now? Toni Morrison.”

“Which one?”

“ _Sula_.”

“That’s refreshing.”

“What is?”

“Oh, just—” the woman breaks off with a little chuckle. She seems almost embarrassed. “Young people, reading, I guess.”

Therese just looks at her; Therese is twenty-five. The woman can’t be _that_ much older than she is. Yet there is something about her, a kind of weariness under her beauty. Therese recognizes it; has seen it in the mirror on cold mornings when everything seems to be interminably _the same_.

Therese watches as the woman puts the pamphlet away in her purse (Louis Vuitton) and snaps it shut. Whatever slight embarrassment she showed before disappears.

“Thank you,” she says brightly, definitively, their time almost up. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Therese echoes, and already the woman is turning away, and Therese stares after her, thinking irrationally, _don’t go! Tell me your name! Tell me I’ll see your again!_

As if she hears her, the woman pauses. Looks back at her. Now there is a little smirk on her lips, so provocative it stops the breath in Therese’s lungs, and she gestures at her own head, whispering conspiratorially, “I like the hat.”

Her eyes flit up and down, an appraisal that Therese feels in every point of her body. Then she is moving away, like a ship at full sail, like a cloud over the ocean, like a dream that drifts off upon waking—but suffuses the waking world.

It’s only twenty, thirty seconds later that Therese notices the woman’s leather gloves, forgotten on the counter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol has a lot on her mind, including a certain someone in a Santa hat.

Carol has been sitting in their usual booth at The McKinley for the past half hour. Usually she’s the one who’s late, but Abby sent her a text fifteen minutes ago, bemoaning New York City cab drivers. Carol doesn’t mind. There’s something deeply peaceful about sitting in a familiar bar, in a secluded booth, sipping your favorite drink. They make a good martini here, and after the day she’s had, this one is particularly necessary.

Harge has Rindy tonight. He showed up to get her an hour early and then insisted that they feed her lunch together. As irritated as she was by his impromptu plans (how comfortably he assumed her availability to him), Carol knows that it’s important for the three of them to spend time together. To try to give Rindy something familiar, now and again. If there’s one thing Carol regrets about this divorce, it’s the rupture that they’re causing in their daughter’s life. More than once she’s thought bitterly that it would have been better for them to divorce three years ago, when Rindy was still a baby. At least then she wouldn’t find it strange or upsetting, being shuffled between two households every few days.

Carol takes a swallow of her drink, relishing the bite of the gin. It’s not like she can’t stand to be around Harge. Their marriage was civil, if not passionate. Early on, they enjoyed each other’s company. Even now, their separation hasn’t been particularly acrimonious. But there’s just something... presumptuous about him. How he lets himself into the house instead of knocking. How he brings in the mail as if it’s his own. This afternoon he noticed a leak in the tap, and got under the sink himself to try to fix it, as if she isn’t perfectly capable of wielding wrench.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was when they told Rindy it was time to go. When Rindy begged Carol to come along to Harge’s parents’ house for the yearly Aird Family Christmas Party™. At first Rindy just wheedled her about it, but as Carol kept saying no, and as Carol’s voice eventually took on that firm and chastising note that Rindy knows is final, their daughter devolved into a full-on tantrum. It would be one thing if it was simply a fit of temper. But Rindy’s tears were real. Huge and rolling and heartbroken as she sobbed and begged Carol to come with them. Eventually, Harge had to scoop her up and take her out of the house. His accusing look was not lost on Carol.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m here!”

Carol snaps out of her thoughts, looking up with a smile to find Abby slipping into the booth across from her. As usual, her friend is the very picture of lesbian chic, vest and blouse unbuttoned at the top; shirtsleeves rolled up; clean undercut and eyeliner on point. She reaches for the martini that’s waiting for her, and takes a healthy drink.

“God, that’s good!” she says blissfully. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had. But first—did you get the doll?”

Carol scowls. “No. Bright— _Betty_ , or whatever she’s called, sold out and her booth was closed today.”

At that, Abby flashes a rakish grin. “Well, then, it’s a good thing Aunt Abby got there yesterday.”

“You didn’t!” Carol cries, indignant.

“Look, _I’m_ the one who took Rindy to the holiday market last weekend and _I’m_ the one who saw her lose her shit over those dolls. It just makes sense that it come from me!”

“You could have told me! I felt awful.”

“I figured if you got her one, too, she’d be doubly delighted. This way at least she gets one. You should be thanking me!”

Carol rolls her eyes. “For proving yet again that you’d make a better mother than me? Thanks, Abby.”

At that, Abby’s grin evaporates. Her brows draw together in surprise and concern. “What? Carol, come on, you can’t be serious.”

Carol says nothing, staring down into her martini. She grabs the toothpick out of it and bites the olive off the end, eyes still averted. There’s a moment of awkward silence, until—

“What did he do this time?”

Abby’s voice is hard, the way it always gets when they talk about Harge. Carol sighs.

“It’s not him,” she says. “It’s Rindy. He picked her up to take to his parents’ this afternoon, and she had a total meltdown. She was _devastated,_ Abby. _Begging_ me to come with them. I felt so awful. I feel—”

Her voice cuts off, too tight, too raw. Tears gather hot in her eyes and in mortification she realizes she might actually start crying in public. Then Abby’s hand is covering hers on the tabletop, and she looks up to find her friend gazing at her gently.

“Carol,” she says. “I know this is hard. I know nothing can stop it from being hard. But you and I both grew up in households with women who didn’t love their husbands. You don’t want that for Rindy. You don’t want her thinking that that’s the best a woman can hope for.”

“And thinking that divorce is the natural conclusion to marriage?” Carol counters. “Is that any better?”

A pause. Abby says, “It’s better that she knows her mommy refuses to live an unhappy life.”

Carol takes a deep breath and lets it out. They’ve had this talk before. Many times. Abby is right; she knows Abby is right. That doesn’t make it any easier when her daughter is sobbing.

Abby gives her hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Now,” she says, in that definitive way that means they are changing the subject and not going to wallow anymore. “We know you didn’t get the doll, but did you check out the other booths I told you about? What about the furniture maker? Sure, he’s got nothing on you, but I thought you might be interested. And what about the ceramics booth? Your dear old friend would _love_ a new dining set. Oh, you probably just came straight home, didn’t you?”

An exaggerated roll of her eyes. Carol scoffs, laughs wetly, but her tears are already going away. The ceramics dining set is carefully wrapped and sitting in the trunk of her car. The furniture maker with his wicker chairs was… diverting. Whenever Carol looks at furniture, all she sees is the scrapes and injuries of time—not because she’s critical, but because those are the pieces that a furniture restorer cares about. Wicker furniture isn’t particularly fun to restore.

She tells Abby, “I didn’t come straight home. I looked around for about an hour. It turns out there was another toymaker. I got Rindy the most beautiful trainset; wait til you see it. I would never have thought to buy it for her, but you know how she loves those old Lincoln Logs of Harge’s? The trains were beautiful, and the tracks are hand-carved and she can build her own courses. She’s going love it.”

“Hold on a second,” Abby exclaims, taking another drink from her glass. “Are you telling me that you, Carol Ross, _browsed_ a holiday market?” Carol scoffs again, more laughter than tears this time, and Abby goes on, “You _hate_ browsing! You hate shopping, period. And Christmas shopping most of all.”

“All right, all right! Before you start asking about body snatchers, I wouldn’t say I browsed. There was a woman at the information booth who told me about the toymaker. I went straight to that booth, picked out some things, and left. And you know, I’m glad I did. That place is a _mad_ house. I can’t believe you didn’t lose Rindy in the crowd.”

“That’s why I chain her to me by the ankle, hon. Kids should always be leashed.”

They laugh. As if on cue, the waiter appears, taking their empty glasses.

“Can I bring you another?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” Carol says. “That’s one of the best martinis I’ve ever had. Is Phil bartending?”

“Not tonight, Ms. Ross,” says the waiter. “We have a new bartender. I’ll pass along your compliments. And can I bring you anything else?”

“Just our usual, I think?”

“Two chicken Cesar salads, coming right up.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

As he slips away, Abby pops a nicotine gum. She’s been trying to quit. So has Carol, hence the vaping pen, which she hates.

“So, a trainset,” says Abby approvingly. “Glad they tipped you off to that booth. I only met one staff person there last week, and she looked like she had a stick shoved _right up_ her ass. Total Scrooge.”

Carol grins, thoughts drifting back to the girl at the information booth. No, not a girl, Carol admonishes herself. She was young, sure, but she was _definitely_ not a girl. Carol doesn’t often flirt with people in public (she prefers dark corners in bars, small gatherings, anonymity) but there was just something about that Santa Hat. That shoulder length dark hair. Those big green eyes that blinked at her so… owlishly.

Abby snaps her fingers in front of Carol’s face.

“Earth to Carol? Where did you just go?”

“What? Oh, nowhere. Sorry. I’m just gonna run to the restroom, okay? Be right back.”

She slips out of the booth, making her way around the restaurant toward the restrooms on the other side. Her route takes her past the bar. It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, and the stools are packed with well-dressed men and women of wide backgrounds but common income. Carol grew up with money. Carol married money. But Carol still grows uneasy, sometimes, at the performances that wealth entails. The best restaurants. The best clothes. The best cars. Carol knows how seamlessly she fits into this world, reared as she was to emulate its most desirable characteristics. But in recent years it has all come to represent for her the constraint, the unwelcome expectations, of her marriage to Harge. Harge wanted her to be a socialite, to sit on boards, to host charities. It annoyed him that she spent so much time in her workshop. It annoyed him that she has calluses on her hands. He would have preferred she limit her exertions to spin class.

She is bitterly ruminating over this, eyes flitting across the assembled crowd as she walks, when one of the bartenders who has been mixing something in a rapid, agile dance, suddenly looks up.

Carol stops short, stunned.

It’s the woman from the holiday market, that slight, pale creature who spoke of Brio trains and Toni Morrison and gave to her, in just a few seconds of conversation, the day’s only true bright spot.

She doesn’t see Carol. She’s working, she’s busy. She pours out a drink and passes it across the bar to a disinterested patron, picking up whatever tip he’s left her. She takes another order, shouted at her over the din, and nods before setting to work. She is solemn, focused, not wasting time with coquettish smiles or small talk. Her hands move rapidly, pouring and tipping and shaking out the next cocktail with practiced ease.

Carol knows that she should leave her alone. There’s nothing worse than an entitled customer who distracts the staff. And yet, almost without realizing it, she walks over to the bar. As is typical in her experience, people make way. She finds a spot at the counter and waits her turn, watching, fascinated. The young woman is wearing black slacks and a white button down with an impeccably knotted necktie. Her hair is pinned back, and her makeup is subtle, smoky. At the information booth she was fresh-faced, makeup free, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with the market logo printed across it. And, of course, there was the Santa hat. Carol takes in her face, exquisitely proportioned; her strong jawline and aquiline nose. Her top lip is a little thin, the bottom one pouty and full. Carol thinks of her smile at the booth, brief, brilliant. She wants to see her smile again. A realization that amazes her, startles her, almost makes her step back from the bar and slip away. What is she doing? Honestly, what is she—

“Good evening, what can I—”

They both freeze. Somehow, Carol wasn’t expecting the girl (no, woman) to get to her so quickly. And clearly she wasn’t expecting to see Carol. Something bright flares between them, recognition, yes, but also—something else. Something Carol cannot name.

Carol recovers first. Smiles dryly and asks, “Moonlighting?”

The young bartender blinks. Her eyes are _so_ large! She looks almost—panicked, and for a moment Carol thinks that this was a huge misstep, an imposition, a terrible lapse in manners—

“You left your gloves,” the bartender blurts.

Carol frowns, confused.

“Excuse me?”

Another startled blink. Color floods her cheeks, before she leans closer over the bar and repeats. “Your gloves. The leather ones? You left them at the information booth.”

Carol frowns a moment longer, and then her own eyes widen in realization. Christ, she hadn’t even noticed.

“Did I really?” she asks.

“Yes. They’re in the lost and found. I’m sorry, I didn’t have your name, and I couldn’t go look for you. I asked my boss if I could announce it over the loudspeaker, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“Oh,” Carol says, amazed at how far she seemed willing to go to return a pair of gloves. “That’s all right. Thank you for—” she hesitates, not sure what to say. Finishes helplessly, “Thank you.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and Carol finds her eyes slipping toward the woman’s jaw again. And down, the slim line of her throat. The tie looks very tight, almost strangling. Carol has a sudden, irrational image of herself, loosening the knot, slipping the fabric from her collar— 

“Can I get you anything?”

_Damn it, focus!_

“Sorry, what?”

The woman swallows. Says, “A drink? Can I get you a drink?”

“I—” Jesus, what will it look like if she doesn’t order something? “I—yes.”

“What would you like?”

_Think, damn you, what would you like?_

“Can I just have a—a water?”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

“A water?” she repeats. 

“Yes, I—I’m at a booth with my friend. I was just going to the ladies but I… got… thirsty. For water.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then something changes in the young woman’s face. Her startled expression gives way to something softer. Almost… gentle. The sight of it spears Carol with sensations she can’t name. They stare at each other for another half beat, before she reaches for a glass, scooping ice into it, filling it from the bar gun.

“One water,” she says. “Coming right up.”

Carol watches her closely. Knows that as soon as the glass is full, as soon as the glass is set before her, the beautiful bartender will have to move on to the next customer. She feels a sudden desperation, to stop it from happening. But what can she possibly do?

Suddenly, from down the bar, a young man who Carol recognizes as one of the barbacks calls out, “Say, Therese, have you got olives?”

Therese… Not Theresa. The ‘z’ sound is intoxicating, and so is the way that Therese’s eyes cut away from her, the way she tops off the glass without looking, the way she grabs a jar of olives and slides it down the bar to her barback, calling, “Here you go.”

She turns to Carol again. Eyes lock again as she sets the glass of water in front of her. Carol fumbles for a tip, and Therese, realizing, laughs softly, and waves a hand at her.

“On the house,” she drawls.

And then, to Carol’s complete and utter distraction, she winks at her.

Winks, and turns to her next, demanding customer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, loves!

_I winked at her._

Those words have been cycling through Therese’s mind for hours.

 _I fucking…_ winked _at her._

Even now, as she gets off the subway and climbs the stairs toward the street, she still can’t believe it. Therese Belivet does not wink. She’s never winked at anyone! She doesn’t even flirt. Fuck, is that what she was doing? Was she… flirting, with a woman?

Not a woman. _That_ woman. That incomparably _beautiful_ woman…

At the front of the station, Richard is waiting for her.

“Terry,” he calls out, and waves.

Therese blinks dazedly. She had somehow forgotten he would be meeting her, even though he always does, on the nights she works late. He doesn’t like her walking the six blocks to her apartment building by herself. It’s a student neighborhood, full of late-night shops and locals who know her and little in the way of dangerous spots, but he still insists. She supposes it’s chivalry.

He kisses her as soon as they meet, a quick peck on the lips before he takes her hand and they start walking.

“How was it?” he asks.

It was Richard’s friend, Phil, who helped her get the bartending job, just like it was Richard’s father who helped her get the market job. Richard is someone who likes to be helpful, who likes to use his connections to help the people he cares about. And Richard cares about her.

“It was busy,” she says. “But I’m getting a handle on it. The barback was better tonight than last night. The tips were good.”

“Saturday night at the swankiest bar in town? The tips better be good!” he says, and grins.

He has a nice face. Handsome. Sweet and earnest. His hand in hers is big and just a little clammy.

“I thought you were sick,” she says.

At that, he cuts her a sheepish look, grinning in that boyish way he does that always gets him out of trouble with his mother.

“Yeah, about that,” he says. “You know you were working last night, and I didn’t have anything to do, so Phil and I went to Flannery’s. We went a little overboard.”

Something hot goes through her. “You missed your shift because you were hungover?” she asks.

Starting around 9 o’clock that morning, the holiday market had practically exploded with patrons. The information booth was so busy, she hardly had time to catch her breath, let alone keep an eye out for the beautiful stranger who’d forgotten her gloves. She could have used Richard’s help today.

But no sooner has her irritation surged, then she realizes: if Richard had not called in sick, he would have been there when the woman came to the booth. He might have been the one to help her, instead of Therese. No matter what, he would have spoiled it—whatever _it_ was.

“Oh, come on, Terry,” Richard is saying. “I’m sorry, but you know how it is. Work is murder, and I just needed to unwind. You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

Was she mad at him? No, it was hard to be mad at Richard. Irritated with him, definitely. Exasperated, yes. But really, truly angry? Therese thought her feelings would have to be a lot stronger, for that.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m sorry work has been rough.”

He proceeds to tell her all about the week he’s had. He’s an assistant manager at Dick’s Sporting Goods in Brooklyn. He offered to get her a job there, too, but Therese has been tending bar since she turned twenty-one, and it suits her schedule better, especially during the semesters. She can work til 2, sleep til 8, and spend the mornings and afternoons on her studies. Come Fall she’ll have a teaching assistantship in her master’s program. It won’t pay as well as bartending but between it and her scholarship she’ll be able to focus on completing her thesis project. It’ll be tight, financially—which is part of why she’s trying to save up as much money as possible now, working straight through the Christmas holiday.

Therese reminds herself of how lucky she was to get into this program. It has a small acceptance rate, and really high job placements with average yearly incomes triple what her mom ever pulled in. She’ll be secure. The fact that she doesn’t love it, that it wakes no particular joy in her, that it feeds no kernel of ambition—well, who says work has to do that? Plenty people (hell, probably most people) work jobs they don’t care about, because that’s what you do. That’s how you live. You work your job and then you find other things to give you joy. Hobbies. Family. Friends.

Therese remembers her camera, determines to go pick it up tomorrow after her shift. Maybe she’ll spend the afternoon photographing her neighborhood. Prove to herself that she has joy in her life. Doesn’t she? She has _friends_ , after all. She has Richard. That’s better than some of her counselors expected for her when she was living in residential care.

And Richard… well, he may not be the most exciting person, but he treats her well. He wants them to go to Paris for Spring Break, which would make it the first school break ever that Therese didn’t spend working. Paris… She’s always wanted to go to Paris, always wanted to travel, from the time she was a kid. She imagines the photographs she could take there, the museums they could visit, the beauty to be seen and created. It’s an incomparable opportunity, and she knows that if she declines on account of money, Richard will make up the difference for her. He’s hardly rich but his family helps him out. She could accept his help, and not have to worry about eating into her savings. It seems like a perfect situation.

So why hasn’t she jumped at it yet?

They reach her apartment building and Therese realizes that she hasn’t been listening to Richard at all for the last five minutes. All her nodding, all her questioning sounds and ‘mmhms’ of agreement have perfectly concealed from him that she has no idea what he’s been talking about. It’s soon apparent that this doesn’t matter. As she keys in the code for her building, and the door opens with a buzz, she turns to say goodnight to him and finds him standing close. He’s much taller than her. The woman at the market was tall, too. He smiles down at her in his boyish way. The woman’s smile was like a brilliant star, arcing across the sky.

“Can I come up?” Richard asks, gently, sweetly, like he has no expectations, only hopes. A perfect gentleman.

“It’s so late, Richard,” she tells him. “I’ve got to be at the fair again tomorrow at 7.”

He frowns. “I thought you weren’t there again til Monday?”

“Mrs. Hendrickson gave me the extra shift.”

“You work too hard, Terry. It’s the Christmas break! I want to spend time together.”

He puts his hands on her hips, meaning clear.

“I know,” she says. “And we will, I promise. After Christmas there’ll be another week before the semester starts, and I won’t have any of these side jobs. We can spend time together then.”

He looks disappointed. Therese can’t exactly blame him. It’s clear in everything Richard does that he’s crazy about her, and they haven’t had a date, just the two of them, in three weeks. They haven’t had sex in a month. He never pressures her, not overtly. And yet she can always feel it—his frustration. His longing. Whenever they so much as kiss, his mouth is hard against hers, his tongue aggressive. He’ll push his hips into hers so she can feel his erection. When they do have sex, it’s perfunctory. They’ll make out on his bed or hers. He’ll take off her clothes and massage her breasts and pull on her nipples, always just a little too rough. Then, he’ll go down on her for a couple of minutes, before reaching for a condom and, well… at least he finishes quick, in missionary. 

He never makes her come, and she never fakes it. Afterwards, he sleeps. Most of the time it’s not so bad.

But tonight Therese’s mind is spinning with the image of the woman at the market. With the image of her at the bar. She had traded in her camel coat for a maroon blazer, worn over a slinky black t-shirt that exposed the top of her chest. There was nothing scandalous about it, not even a hint of cleavage. And yet just that spread of pale skin, the dip in her throat, the cut of her collarbones, had affected Therese more than the most amorous of Richard’s advances.

Fuck, what is going on? She’s never so much as _looked_ at women before. And it’s not like she doesn’t have gay friends. Dannie is a polyamorous fairy child who has introduced her to scores of queer women, several of whom have made passes at her. She always brushes it off, always laughs. It just isn’t her.

But this woman… This woman whose name she doesn’t even know—

Richard says, “I understand, Terry. I know how hard you’re working. But look, Mom wants you to come for Christmas. You will, won’t you?”

Something in her stomach drops. Richard comes from a big, happy, loud family, so different from anything Therese ever experienced herself. They’re always so nice to her, so welcoming. His mother especially is kind, clearly wants to take her under her wing. It always leaves Therese feeling guilty. Mrs. Semco is eyeing a daughter-in-law, and in recent weeks Therese has begun to dread that the trip to Paris is a pretense for a much grander gesture…

“Of course I’ll come,” she says, smiling tightly. “It’s late. I need to get to bed.”

“All right.”

He wraps his arms around her and kisses her. It’s one of his less amorous kisses, more sweet than demanding. His lips are cold and firm. When it’s over she says goodnight and leaves him on the stoop, walking up the stairs toward her third story apartment.

Inside, it’s dark and cold. She turns on the hall light and turns up the thermostat a couple of degrees, trying not to worry about the electric bill. She changes into her pajamas, pulling on a hoodie and thick socks, and climbs under the covers with her laptop. It’s late, she’s tired, but she hasn’t had a chance to even think about her photography all week. She spends about an hour on a few pictures, toying with color saturation and idly blending three images of Central Park into a kind of collage/triptych that ends up looking empty and cold. Dannie says she should take more pictures of people. But people always leave Therese Belivet a little confused, a little lost. There’s something invasive about photographing the lives of strangers. Or maybe it’s just that her own desire, to not have her life invaded, bleeds into the work she does.

Or maybe it’s that she hasn’t found people she wants to photograph yet. She thinks of the woman, imagines photographing her—at the market, at the bar, in Central Park, in her own apartment, in her bed—

_Fuck, stop._

She snaps the laptop shut in frustration, sticking it under the bed and rolling over. She pulls the covers up to her chin, huddling into a ball to try to get warm. The digital clock on her bedstand reads 3:16. She has to be up in just a couple of hours. She’s exhausted, eyes gritty and burning. Most nights she’s out as soon as her head hits the pillow.

But most nights are ordinary. Boring. Most nights sit on the cusp of another ordinary, boring day. Tonight, however, Therese’s thoughts keep drifting to the holiday market. To the information booth, with its lost and found box under the counter. Inside that box is a pair of gray leather gloves, that she held in her hands, supple and soft and expensive. The woman knows now, where her gloves ended up. Will she come for them? Or will she be too busy? The woman was in one of the ritziest bars in town—perhaps it’s nothing to her, to lose a pair of expensive gloves.

Therese closes her eyes, and imagines that she is holding the gloves in her hands. She imagines that she is wearing the gloves, slipping her fingers into the warm, wool-lined interior. The woman’s hands were bigger than hers, and yet in Therese’s drifting thoughts, the gloves fit her perfectly…


	4. Chapter 4

On the mornings when Rindy is with Harge, Carol tells herself that she should sleep in. It’s only been a couple of years since Rindy started really sleeping through the night, and even now she’s a fussy sleeper. She gets nightmares. She wakes up at 5:00, and can’t settle down again. There have been days in the past four years, when Carol thought it was truly possible to die from exhaustion.

And so, isn’t this the benefit of joint custody? That she gets more time off? Time to herself? Time to sleep?

Yet the house is so empty, without Rindy in it. Quiet, and too big. The two stories and five bedrooms feel like a travesty when it’s just her. Harge keeps insisting that they hang on to the house. He says their neighborhood in Jersey is only going to appreciate in value, and besides, Rindy should have the stability of a home she recognizes. Carol doesn’t disagree, but she envies Harge the two-bedroom condo he’s renting in Manhattan.

She tosses in bed for a restless hour, then finally gets up at 7:00, pulling on her bathrobe and heading downstairs to the kitchen. It’s Sunday, and she gave the staff the week off. Harge is annoyed with her because she paid them for the week anyway. He claims that people will take advantage of her generosity.

Carol brews herself a French press and wonders if it really is generosity. They have a housekeeper named Florence and a part-time nanny for Rindy and a father/son gardening team. All four of these people have been with them for years, have watched the marriage collapse, watched the divorce proceed, watched the new custody arrangement play out. And if that custody arrangement was ever contested, if Carol ever found herself fighting with Harge over Rindy, well—it’d be better to have the staff on her side, just in case.

Is that why she paid them for the week? The thought didn’t occur to her at the time, but maybe what drove her wasn’t generosity at all, but _strategy_. God, she’s just like her mother. Using money to solve her problems. Looking at everything from a mercenary angle.

In disgust Carol grabs the cream from the fridge and pours some into her mug, then the coffee. She looks out the back windows at the garden, toward the workshop Harge had built for her in their second year of marriage. Back then he saw her work as a charming hobby. It wasn’t until she started taking commissions that he began to really insist on them starting a family, perhaps thinking she’d give it up. Well, Rindy came along, bringing all the joy and chaos that children do—and Carol did not give up her workshop.

She takes her coffee up to the bedroom. She changes into jeans and a long-sleeved men’s thermal. It gets cold in the shop so she adds a beanie and sweatshirt. Ten minutes later she’s stepping into the familiar smells of paint and lacquer, wood and fabric, sawdust and glue. The shop is about fifteen by fifteen feet, one side occupied with upcoming projects: a cabinet with a cracked drawer; two dining chairs with scratched up legs and frayed cushion seats; a dresser with rusted hardware and peeling finish. The pieces are heirlooms, old, expensive. Some have been living rich lives in family homes; others have been languishing in storage. The end table she’s working on right now is a hundred years old, made from a gorgeous, dark mahogany that has been brutalized by its time in a drafty attic. But when Carol is done restoring it, it will shine with new life.

If only it were quite that easy to restore herself. Almost a year since Harge moved out, six month since he agreed to the divorce, days since she found the guts to tell him she would not be going to his parents’ for Christmas—and yet, she’s still waiting for the part where she suddenly feels free. Still waiting for the rush of relief that’s supposed to come from leaving a bad marriage. Instead, she feels constantly restless, constantly distracted. She worries about Rindy. She worries about the house. She worries about herself, and what she’ll do now. She always hated all the social expectations associated with marriage to a wealthy venture capitalist, but if nothing else, they gave her something to do. And now?

“You need to keep busy,” Abby told her last night. “And not just in your workshop. Harge spent the past ten years keeping you to himself, keeping you isolated from everyone he didn’t know. Now, it’s like you don’t know how to be around other people. Well, I’m not gonna stand for that shit anymore. Either find a book club or something or I swear I’m gonna sign us up for Pilates. Don’t test me.”

Carol sighs. In the choice between book club or Pilates, she’s not sure what sounds worse. It’s so much easier, to slip into her workshop. To be among her things. To slip her earbuds in and float away on work and music and solitude—even if it is lonely.

She takes a large drink of the coffee, relishing the imported beans, and sets her mug down on the nearest surface. She takes out her phone and sets up a playlist that Abby added to her phone last night, cheekily entitled “God is a Woman.” The first song is Cardi B’s WAP. Carol rolls her eyes, amused in spite of herself. It’s not actually a bad song to work to.

And so, she does work. She works for two hours—three, running through Abby’s playlist twice. Eventually it gets warm in the workshop. She strips off the sweatshirt and beanie, rolls up her sleeves, wipes her wrist against her brow, slick from exertion. Sometimes the work is quiet, delicate. Sometimes it takes real elbow grease. Either way, it’s satisfying. Her progress, however slow, gives her a much-needed sense of accomplishment, and she predicts she can have this piece completed before Christmas. If she does, she’ll be ahead of schedule, and maybe have time for her own projects. She glances toward the back of the shop, where a few original pieces have stood untouched for the past couple of months. Her eyes glom onto the top of the hope chest with its lattice of half-completed surface carvings. The chisel and mallet rest atop it, and atop them, a pair of work gloves.

It feels a little bit like electrocution, the sight of those gloves, and the memory of other gloves they inspire. To her startlement she realizes she hasn’t thought of the bartender—Therese—once all morning. After their brief, strange conversation at the bar, Carol carried her glass of ice water back to the booth in a kind of daze. Abby was confused as to what she was doing with it, and Carol gave some bumbling excuse about not wanting to bother Jack when she was right at the bar anyway. Abby gave her a narrow-eyed look, as if she suspected this was a lie, but she didn’t push it. The conversation between them continued. Only then did Carol realize she hadn’t gone to the restroom after all. Therese had completely flustered her.

And now? Is she flustered now? Does the thought of the young woman in her shirt and tie, with her smoky eyeliner and dark lipstick, fluster her? If that’s what is happening, Carol has no precedent for her own feelings. The girl gave her straight vibes, even with her wide-eyed staring. And Therese is clearly much younger than Carol, who has always found it distasteful, when older men and women go after younger models. She herself has only had affairs with women her own age or older. Women of firmly established sexuality, either lesbian or bi. Women of means, with clear intentions. Flirts. Carol herself is a flirt, in the right context. She even flirted with Therese, complimenting that silly hat. But Therese’s reaction, startled, blushing, was so unlike the reaction of the women Carol usually flirts with. She was definitely straight.

Yet she’d mentioned the gloves. She’d been preoccupied by them. And she’d smiled at her in that gentle way when Carol made of a fool of herself, and laughed and waved off the ridiculous tip for a glass of ice water. And she’d winked.

She’d _winked_ at Carol.

Did that mean anything? People winked all the time, didn’t they? A friendly wink, here or there, was no declaration of intent. And young people were so much freer in some ways. Maybe it was just the style, to wink at people you didn’t know?

So why is Carol’s stomach fluttering? Why does she feel suddenly restless? Why does she stand up and step away from the end table and push a hand through her hair, that old, nervous gesture? On impulse, Carol digs out her phone and looks up the holiday market. Yes, it’s open today. Will Therese be there? Is it worth it to go, if she isn’t? Carol will lose two hours just getting in and out of the city.

Then again, she does love those gloves…

A little over an hour later, Carol is passing her keys off to a valet, and turning toward the market doors like an explorer who surveys some foreign land from the height of a mountain. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and heads inside.

It’s almost one in the afternoon, much busier than it was yesterday morning, crowds packed in, Christmas music blaring over loud speakers. For a moment, Carol regrets coming, the din almost painful. But she tells herself she can be in and out quickly, and pushes her way through the throng, toward the information booth.

As soon as she arrives, her stomach sinks. There are two people working the booth, an older man and a young woman—but the young woman is not Therese. Defeated, annoyed with herself for caring, Carol gets in line. It takes about ten minutes to reach the front of the booth, where she’s greeted by the older man, his Santa hat tipped sideways.

“Merry Christmas, Ma’am!” he says. “How can I help you?”

“I lost my gloves here, yesterday. A pair of gray leather gloves. An employee of yours said they were in the lost and found.”

“Well, all right then, let me just look!”

He crouches down behind the counter, and must be rifling through the box. She hears his voice, muffled, calling to her, “Gray, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Not black?”

Carol barely manages to stifle a sound of irritation. She knows where this is headed. “No, gray. Leather. Gucci.”

The man stands up again, looking remorseful, “I’m so sorry, Ma’am, I don’t see them.”

Carol just stares at him for a moment. _You have got to be fucking kidding me_. She’s come all the way into the city under loose pretenses of retrieving her gloves, and now not even the gloves are here?

“You’re sure?” she asks, inane.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. You said an employee told you we had them?”

“Yes, a—a young woman. Therese?”

At that, his eyes light up. “Oh, Terry? Sure, sure! She just ran to the food court to get us some coffees. In fact she should be—oh, hey! Terry!”

He’s looking over her shoulder. Carol’s heart leaps, and she whirls around. There, not ten feet away, stands Therese. She’s carrying a tray of Styrofoam cups, and her eyes are wide and surprised as they lock with Carol’s. The sight of her is… startling, in a way Carol was not prepared for. Gone is the eyeliner, the dark lipstick, the shirt and tie. Her hair is loose and she’s wearing her holiday market t-shirt under a green cardigan, jewel-toned, like her eyes. What may be half a moment, or long seconds later, she unsticks her feet and moves toward them again. Carol notices with a flare of concern that there are circles under her eyes. She’s slightly pale. She looks… exhausted. And yet still, somehow, arrestingly beautiful.

Then she is standing in front of her, looking up at her, saying, “You came for the gloves?”

“I—yes—I—they’re not in the—”

“I put them in the cashbox,” says Therese. “They looked so expensive. Here hold, on.”

She brushes past, and Carol catches a hint of something from her hair, product, maybe, or shampoo—something intoxicating. She watches as Therese goes back into the booth, setting down the tray of coffees and reaching under the counter for a metal petty cash box. She unlocks it, lifts out the tray of bills, and underneath lie Carol’s gloves. Therese hands them to her. Their fingers brush.

“I’m sorry if you thought they weren’t here,” Therese says awkwardly. “I was planning to tell Gareth where they were before leaving. I didn’t know if you’d be back for them.”

“It was very kind of you, to keep such a good eye on them.”

The young woman’s face pinks, her eyes darting away for a moment, then lifting again. She’s several inches shorter than Carol. There’s something… pleasing about that. For a moment they just stand there, the counter between them, eyes locked. This is what Carol came for—to retrieve her gloves. She’s got no reason to stay, and Therese is working. It’s time to say goodbye. And yet—

“I just wanted to say thank you, really,” says Carol.

“Of course,” says Therese.

“And… maybe I could buy you a coffee or something, to thank you?”

At the same moment, their eyes drop to the tray of Styrofoam cups. When they look at each other, something twinkles in Therese’s eyes, amusement, and Carol finds herself grinning ruefully, rubbing the back of her neck in a self-conscious gesture that seems to draw Therese’s attention. “All right, not coffee. But… Do you get a lunch hour? Let me take you to lunch. It’s the least I could do.”

Therese’s eyes get somehow bigger. There’s a faint flush on her cheeks as she says nervously. “Well, yes, I… Of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“I’m free today,” says Carol, watching her carefully. “Have you had your lunch hour yet?”

Therese blinks at her several times, opens her mouth as if trying to figure out how to answer, when suddenly—

“Terry’s shift is just about to end, actually,” says Gareth, who Carol had completely forgotten. Both he and the other young woman are watching them with curious looks. Gareth says. “She was just sweet enough to get us coffee first. But you’re off now, right, Terry?”

Therese says vaguely, “Oh, in a—in another fifteen minutes, yes, but—”

“You should go,” says the other young woman. “I got here early, didn’t I? No need for you to stay.”

“Yeah, go on, Terry,” Gareth says.

Therese looks at her again, and suddenly it occurs to Carol that she’s put her in a terribly awkward position. Therese doesn’t know her, doesn’t know anything about her. Perhaps Therese has plans for after work? And now some strange woman with ridiculously expensive gloves is just assuming she wants to have lunch? What the fuck is she—

“All right,” says Therese.

She turns her back, reaching for a coat that’s hung on one of the posts of the booth. She shrugs it on, and Carol watches her, as fascinated as if she were a woodland fairy. The coat is military style, hooded and worn in and comfortable looking. Next, she grabs a messenger bag, slinging it over her shoulders. This, too, has the look of something well-loved, corners shiny, metal buckles tarnished. She comes out from behind the booth and stands before Carol, and if she looked nervous and uncomfortable before, now there’s something thoughtful in her expression—almost appraising.

“Where would you like to go?” she asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering about timeline, this takes place in a magical 2020 where we got Cardi B's WAP, but no coronavirus. 
> 
> Also, just want to mention that this is gonna be a pretty slow burn compared to my other fics. Drop me a comment to let me know if it's working for you!


	5. Chapter 5

They end up across the street, in a restaurant that the woman claims to know well. It’s called Scotty’s, and Therese’s first impression is that it’s way outside her budget. As they’re walking in the woman asks, “Have you eaten yet today?”

And Therese, surprised by the question, says, “No.”

“I thought not. Let’s fix that.”

She thought not? Why did she think not? Why did it occur to her at all whether Therese has eaten?

Before Therese can parse the full extent of her own bafflement, the waiter seats them in a booth, and presents their menus. One glance at the specials on the front page, prices tellingly absent, confirms for Therese that she’ll have to leave her camera in the shop an extra day. This meal alone will eat a day’s earnings at the holiday market. Yet somehow, Therese doesn’t care, is happy to do it, is amazed to find herself in this place with this woman, who has barely sat down before she’s unwrapping her scarf and telling the waiter—

“I’ll have a martini with an olive. And the spinach salad with dressing on the side.”

“Of course, Mrs. Aird,” says the waiter.

 _Mrs. Aird_ , thinks Therese, her stomach twisting. _She’s married._

Then she realizes that both the waiter and Mrs. Aird are looking at her, waiting for her to say something. In a panic she looks down at her menu again, but it may as well be written in Greek. When she looks up, Mrs. Aird is regarding her in a frank, curious way, clearly wondering what she’ll do. Therese wonders irrationally if this is how she handles all her lunch dates—ordering as soon as she sits down just to see how her guest reacts.

Therese says, “I’ll have the same.”

“The drink or the meal?”

“All of it,” says Therese.

He walks off, their menus in hand, and now it is just Therese and—

“Mrs. Aird?” she says questioningly.

A smirk curves the woman’s mouth, makes of it an elegant, sinful shape. “I come here often enough,” she says. “The staff know me. But I’m not Mrs. Aird, anymore. I’m at the tail end of a divorce, actually.”

“Oh,” Therese blinks. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Don’t be,” interrupts not-Mrs. Aird. “It’s amicable. Or, as amicable as these things get. My maiden name is Ross. Isn’t that funny? Apparently now I’m divorced I’m a maiden again.”

Therese isn’t quite sure how to respond, so she asks, “And your first name?”

The woman regards her for half a beat, as if trying to decide whether or not to bestow this precious token. And in that moment Therese knows it _will_ be precious—that whatever this woman’s name is, it’s a name worth shouting from the rooftops.

“Carol,” she says, and Therese imagines her holding a cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke in the air, saying, _‘Yes, it is an old-fashioned name, isn’t it? A classic. Like me.’_

“Carol,” Therese repeats, turning it over in her mouth, tasting it.

Carol says, “And you’re Therese, right? Or do you prefer to be called Terry?”

Therese must make a face, because Carol’s smile is wide and delighted; she laughs softly, a musical sound.

“No, not Terry. You had it right with Therese. Therese Belivet.”

A lifted brow. “What kind of name is Belivet?” she asks curiously.

“It’s Czech.”

Carol Ross nods, then says, slowly and grandly, “Therese Belivet.” The name sounds elegant in her mouth, exotic, almost, and with a sincere smile she adds, “It’s lovely.”

And all Therese can think is, _this woman’s name is Carol Ross. This woman thinks my name is lovely. When Carol Ross says my name, it_ becomes _lovely. Like magic._

They look at each other in silence. A beat. Two. It’s too long to look at someone without speaking, and yet Therese is tongue-tied. Carol has taken off her sleek wool coat and underneath she’s wearing a light gray blazer over a coral pink shell. Her hair is tousled from the December wind and yet it somehow only makes her more glamorous. Therese is uncomfortably conscious of the holiday logo on her t-shirt, of her faded jeans, of her sneakers. And she is equally conscious that three, five, seven seconds later, they still aren’t talking.

“Did you—” Therese stumbles. “Did you end up finding the train maker?”

A pleased smile graces those full lips; Therese has the impression that the silence didn’t bother Carol at all, but now she says easily, “I did. You’re a star for telling me about him. Rindy is going to love it!”

“Rindy is your daughter?”

“Yes!” Carol beams, takes out her phone and opens it. A moment later she’s showing Therese a picture of a little girl, blonde as Carol, with the same catlike eyes, though brown instead of pale.

“Oh, she looks like you!” Therese says. She has known a lot of children in her life; grew up with far too many of them. Carol Ross’s daughter is cherubically adorable.

“Do you think so?” Carol asks, regarding the picture herself, smiling in a soft, fond way. Therese wonders what it must be like, to be a person who makes Carol smile like that. Then Carol is putting the phone away, looking at her again. “It was really nice of you, to help me. And to take an interest in my gloves.”

Something in the phrasing makes Therese blush, and she’s desperately relieved when their waiter returns, bearing two martinis.

“Cheers,” Carol says.

“Cheers,” Therese echoes, and the glasses clink together.

Therese has never particularly liked gin, and the martini is as old-fashioned as the name Carol. It fits Carol, of course; it has a sort of classic Hollywood grandeur, just like Carol. Yes, that’s what Carol reminds her of: a 1920s starlet, a woman out of another time, too exquisite to be in this booth with her, to be talking to her, to be looking at her over the rim of the martini glass with another of those amused smiles.

“Do you like martinis?” Carol asks.

“Oh, sure,” Therese lies.

A smirk. “But it wouldn’t be your first choice, would it? What do you normally prefer?”

“The martini is fine, I swear! I mean… usually I just have beer or wine. Or… I do like an old-fashioned, actually.”

Dannie always teases her for this, calls her Don Draper. Carol, too, gives her a teasing look. “An old-fashioned. How decadent. We’ll try that, next time. I’m sorry. Did I rush you, ordering? I was just thinking how hungry you must be.”

“It’s all right. I—I like salads. I like—spinach salads.”

The smirk of amusement deepens. She has the sense that Carol is thinking things that she will not share, and yet while any other circumstance like this would leave Therese mortified, fearing judgement and scorn, there’s nothing unpleasant in Carol’s look.

“Well, you’re the bartender. How is it, do you think?”

Therese takes another sip of the martini, considering. After a moment she says, “It could use a little more vermouth.”

Carol grins. “I thought the same thing. How long have you been working at The McKinley? I told Jack you made the best martini I’d ever had.”

“Oh, I—I just started, actually. On Friday. I used to bartend in Queens.”

“And you work nights, I see. And then you were at the market early this morning, weren’t you? You must be exhausted.”

Therese finds this just as surprising as Carol assuming that she hadn’t eaten today. She’s not used to people observing her, and yet whereas she expects it to be deeply unpleasant, instead she just feels… touched.

“Yeah,” Therese gives a rueful laugh. “I’m sure I look exhausted.”

Carol sips her martini, says casually, “You look just fine. You’re very pretty, in fact.”

Therese’s stomach swoops. Her heart clamors. Is this something that strangers say to each other? What does it mean that Carol has said this to her? Should she say something back? Say, for example, ‘You are magnificent.’ Because she is. She is gorgeously, breathtakingly magnificent.

But then Carol asks, “Do you normally work two jobs?”

Swallowing nervously, Therese recovers. “No, this is just a holiday thing.”

“And are you liking it? The McKinley?”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Bartending is good money.”

“You live in the city?”

“Yes.”

A wry look. “I suppose you’ve got roommates.”

This time, Therese smiles, “No, actually, I live alone.”

Carol’s brows hike up. “Really? I didn’t know anyone could afford that in this city.”

 _You could afford that,_ Therese thinks, eyes flitting to the expensive watch on her wrist, to the Gucci gloves on the table, to the designer handbag (a different one than she had yesterday). She explains, “It’s student housing. I get it through my scholarship.”

Carol’s expression slackens. For a moment she looks almost panicked, and then, in a slightly strained voice, “I’m sorry, _how_ old are you?”

Therese breaks out in a grin. “It’s a graduate program. I didn’t start undergrad until I was twenty one, and now I’m in my first years of a Masters at NYU. I’m twenty-five.”

Instantly, Carol’s expression relaxes. Amused, Therese asks her dryly, “How old are _you_?”

To her shock and delight, Carol looks flustered. She smiles, but it’s self-deprecating, cheeks pink. “Oh, I’m—I’m thirty-five. I’m sorry, I just—I thought for a second you might be some seventeen-year-old college Freshman.”

Therese lifts an eyebrow at her, “Why would that matter?”

The color in Carol’s cheeks only deepens. She takes a swallow of her drink, eyes averted, mumbling, “Oh, it—it doesn’t. I guess it doesn’t.”

 _It does,_ Therese thinks, her heart pounding. _It matters to you how old I am._

“What are you studying?” Carol asks, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Oh, I—it’s the Accounting program. In the Stern School of Business.”

At that, Carol’s flustered expression disappears, replaced by a furrowed brow. “Really?”

Therese’s body tightens, the same defensive impulse that rises in her whenever people react like this. “Yes, really. Why?”

“Oh, I just—I don’t know. I guess I was imagining an English program or… fine arts. I didn’t know accountants read Toni Morrison.”

Therese, still a little tense, says, “I think all kinds of people read Toni Morrison.”

Carol winces. “You’re right. Yes, I’m sorry, forgive me. You’re absolutely right. I don’t know why I reacted that way.”

She looks embarrassed. She’s focusing on her drink again, eyes averted, and the sight of it pierces Therese with unhappiness. She can’t stand for Carol to look so uncomfortable.

“It’s all right,” Therese says. “I didn’t mean to sound so… defensive. People are always surprised and I guess I—well… Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like accounting is some kind of passion for me. But I’m good at math and… well, I grew up in the foster system. I want to get a good job, one that’ll pay me enough to live. I don’t care about being rich or anything but… I just want some… security. Does that make sense?”

Carol looks at her with a new intensity, her pale eyes unfathomably bright, her lips barely parted. Therese freezes. She doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at her with such careful attention.

Carol says, “I think it makes perfect sense.” Then, after a long pause, their eyes still locked, she asks, “You grew up in foster care?”

 _Fuck._ Therese thinks. _Fuck, why did you tell her that? Fuck._

People get so… strange when they find out. Startled, embarrassed, pitying. They start painting pictures in their heads of how damaged you must be, start imagining all kinds of traumas you must have gone through, and whether they’re right or wrong—Therese hates to think of them imagining it. Labeling her.

Only, to her surprise, there’s no pity in Carol’s expression. There’s no crass curiosity, either. There’s none of the discomfort or suspicion that shows up in so many people’s faces. She looks at Therese, and the look in her eyes both invites confidence, and promises respect. It’s almost as if she’s saying, _‘You can tell me if you like. It’s all right if you don’t want to. I only want to know you, Therese.’_

And does she? Does this remarkable, beautiful, fascinating woman really have any interest in knowing Therese Belivet? 

Therese says haltingly, “Oh… just from the time I was nine.” More silence, Carol’s look is calm, quiet, making space. Therese finds herself explaining. “I was in and out of foster homes and residential centers. My mom wasn’t abusive or anything, but our house wasn’t always… safe… and she just couldn’t take care of me. She’d show up from time to time and talk about me coming to live with her again, but it never worked out. By the time I was sixteen I knew I didn’t want to be adopted. I started living independently at eighteen and aged out of the system at twenty. In New York foster kids get free tuition at any state school, but I wanted to save some money first. So I worked for a couple of years and then went to CUNY Brooklyn for undergrad, and then I got a full ride to NYU for grad school.” Carol is just staring at her. Meekly she finishes, “So here I am.”

A beat of silence. And then, the waiter appears. Therese almost jumps at the plate being laid in front of her, at the waiter’s voice saying, “And here are your meals.”

She takes the opportunity to look away from Carol, and down at her salad. It actually looks delicious, covered in crumbled feta and candied cranberries, thin slices of hard-boiled egg and a sweet-smelling vinaigrette on the side. The waiter has deposited a basket of bread as well and, desperate for something to do, Therese grabs a steaming roll, buttering it nervously.

That’s when Carol speaks.

“What a strange girl you are.”

Startled, Therese looks up at her again. This is the last thing she expected, and she’s not sure what to make of it. Is Carol insulting her? Is she—

“Why?” Therese asks, baffled.

But there’s no insult or mockery in Carol’s face, only a gentle amazement. “You talk about your life as if what you’ve done is run-of-the-mill. Ordinary and uninteresting. But your accomplishments are incredible. _You_ are clearly… incredible.” 

Therese’s eyes widen, taken aback. She’s had a few teachers who have said this sort of thing, but it always felt… forced. Condescending. As if they found her remarkable simply because her circumstances had lead them to assume she would be unremarkable, even disappointing. But there is no condescension in Carol’s eyes, in Carol’s voice, in her words and her small, genuine smile.

Still, Therese is embarrassed. She looks away again, quickly dressing her salad and brandishing her fork. She glances up nervously, says, “I’m starved.”

Once again Carol’s smile is amused, but also gentle. She lifts her own fork, and says dryly, “ _Bon Appetit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just want to point out here that while the little girl who plays Rindy in the film is FUCKING adorable, the Rindy in my headcannon (and the book) actually looks like Carol. And WHY? Because I find it VERY creepy that Rindy in the movie is styled to look like a mini Therese. It's gross. Women don't fall in love with women because they want to fuck their moms or they want to replace their daughters. Jesus.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was horrifying, and I know lots of us are hurting. I hope this chapter gives you a bright spot.

Carol is in trouble.

She is in _serious_ trouble.

It’s been four days since her impromptu lunch with Therese Belivet, and she has not stopped thinking about her. Tonight is Christmas Eve. Rindy is back from Harge’s and in that state of pre-Christmas excitement that borders on hysteria. Abby is going to be over for dinner any minute and the scalloped potatoes are still in the second oven. There are presents to be wrapped from Santa and a load of laundry in the washing machine and the kitchen looks like a warzone—but all Carol can think about is Therese Belivet.

She’s gonna burn the fucking turkey if she’s not careful.

Their lunch was so… peculiar. It seems a strange word to use and yet it’s also the only word she can think of. Every moment brought something new and unexpected. Moments of humor and sweetness. Awkward missteps. Intimate revelations. Surges of undefinable hope and also—crushing disappointment.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Carol had asked her.

A slight frown creased that lovely brow. “Oh. I think I’ll probably be with my boyfriend’s family.”

Her boyfriend. Her _boy_ friend.

It took all of Carol’s considerable training as a socialite not to show how stunned and, frankly, devastated she was. And what right did she have to be stunned _or_ devastated? Hadn’t she thought from the beginning the girl must be straight? And if there’s one thing Carol does not do, has never done, it’s chase straight girls. On the rare occasion that she’s found herself attracted to a straight woman, learning about the boyfriend or husband has shut that down faster than an express train.

Carol, not wanting to give herself away, had asked lightly, “Oh, is that right? How nice. What’s his name?”

But Therese was still frowning, and looked almost uncomfortable. “Uh,” she said, “Richard. His name is Richard.”

What a dumb fucking name.

The sound of the doorbell pierces her thoughts. Rindy shouts, “I’ll get it!” and runs for the front door. She knows perfectly well she’s not supposed to open that door—

But it sounds like Abby has already let herself in. Carol hears Rindy’s squeal of delight as she no doubt throws herself into her aunt’s arms.

“There you are!” Abby cries.

A minute later she comes into the kitchen (Rindy riding piggy back) and surveys the damage.

“Jesus, Carol. Did a bomb go off?”

“ _Jesus_ , Mommy!” Rindy cries.

“Now you’ve done it.”

Abby sets Rindy down with a wink, tells her, “Go get that bag of presents out of the foyer and take it to the tree. I don’t know if you’ll be able to lift it, munchkin, it’s _so_ heavy!”

Rindy darts off. Abby grabs one of the aprons hanging by the refrigerator. “All right,” she says, stern as a general. “Where do you need me?”

Now that Abby’s here Carol actually has some hope she’ll be able to finish dinner without ruining it. Abby is a pain in the ass but she knows how to get things done, and in Carol’s current state of helpless distraction, that’s exactly what she needs. Together, they seize control of the kitchen, working side by side with the fluidity that only a very old friendship affords. In the living room Rindy shouts a play-by-play of every package she sets under the tree, from descriptions of the wrapping paper to size to weight.

“Christ, Abby, how many presents did you get her?” Carol asks.

“She’s my _heir_ , Carol, don’t judge me.”

“Between Christmas Eve with you and Christmas morning with me and Christmas _afternoon_ with Harge she’s going to be the most spoiled child in America. God, I want a cigarette!”

Abby, who is slicing apple for the salad, flicks her a sidelong glance. “You all right there, Champ?”

“I’m sorry, yes, I’m fine. I’m just…” Carol trails off, staring at the thermometer she’s just jammed into the turkey, but somehow unable to read the temperature. “I’m just a little… distracted.”

There’s momentary silence. Finally Carol gets a read on the thermometer. They’re approaching the fine line between perfectly cooked and dried out. Give it another ten minutes.

When she turns back around, Abby is watching her shrewdly. Carol notices for the first time how lovely Abby looks tonight, her makeup perfectly accentuating her deep brown eyes and her mouth and her cheekbones. Even in an apron she looks good, her shirt unbuttoned to expose the top of her chest and collarbones. Not for the first time Carol finds herself wondering, _Why couldn’t you have just stayed in love with Abby? She’s hot, she’s your best friend, you adore each other. Wouldn’t that have been so much easier than…_

“Hey, nitwit, what are you staring at?” Abby asks her.

Carol lets out a shuddering sigh. She had her chance with Abby, and much as she may wish otherwise, she couldn’t make it stick. Not in that way. No matter how much Abby wanted it to. And now, she’s burning up with thoughts of Therese, and wishes she could tell Abby about it, but can’t shake the feeling that it’s unfair, somehow. It’s not like she thinks Abby is pining over her (the woman dates regularly; gets laid even more regularly) but Carol has never quite been able to shake the guilt of breaking her best friend’s heart. Even if it was five years ago.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping a hand across her forehead, moving to the second oven to take out the potatoes and set them on the counter to rest.

And then, all of the sudden, Abby says, “You met someone.”

Carol whirls toward her, eyes wide and startled, mouth hanging open. Abby is tossing the apples into the salad and smirking in that cat-got-the-cream way of hers.

“Well?” she asks. “Who is it? Man? Woman? Somebody I know?”

“No,” says Carol.

“All right…” Abby draws out the word, watching her. “Then… who?”

Carol shakes herself. She turns down the oven temperature and tosses in a tray of Pillsbury crescent biscuits. “No one,” she says, “I haven’t met anyone, not like that. Not like—a date. She’s—”

“I knew it!”

“ _Abby_.”

“Sorry. Go on. Who is this ‘she’ you’re not dating?”

“I met her at the holiday market. We had lunch this week, just—a friendly lunch, and…”

“What do you do, Carol?” Therese had asked her.

“Oh, I—well, actually, I run my own business. Not a formal business, I guess, it’s sort of just… something I’m doing on the side, though I do like it. I just—”

“Carol,” Therese had interrupted her with a little laugh, so rich and beautiful that for a moment Carol had been stunned into silence. Then she said, “Just tell me! You’re not a secret axe murderer are you?”

Carol had laughed. “Funny you should say that, I do use the occasional hatchet in my line of work.” Therese’s eyes had widened, and Carol told her, “I’m a furniture restorer.”

At that, Therese looked instantly, beautifully surprised, intrigued, impressed. “Really?”

Carol was so used to the people in her circles responding with a kind of vague indifference. Treating her work as an eccentric hobby. Changing the subject to a piece of furniture they themselves had just bought, expensive, new, artisan. In the face of Therese’s genuine interest, she had hardly known how to respond.

“So?” Abby’s voice snaps her back into the present. “What’s the problem?”

Carol clears her throat. Puts on her oven mitts and prepares to take out the turkey, saying over her shoulder, “She’s straight.”

Abby doesn’t answer right away. Carol lifts the turkey from the oven and sets it down on the island, feeling the burn in her biceps from the weight of it. It’s really too big for three people. But Carol’s favorite thing about roasting a turkey is the days of turkey sandwiches afterwards.

Abby asks, “How do you know?”

A scoff. “She has a boyfriend.”

When Carol looks up, Abby is giving her a disapproving look. “That’s a little bi-phobic, don’t you think?”

“Not if she actually _is_ straight.”

“So this lunch with her—it wasn’t a date?”

“No. It was casual, spur of the moment. She helped me find my gloves and I asked if I could buy her lunch to thank her.”

Abby’s eyebrows shoot up. That bone structure really is well-suited to exaggerated expressions.

“Hold on,” she says, and braces her hands on the kitchen island, leaning forward. “Let me make sure I understand this. You met some random woman at a market. She finds your gloves or whatever. Pleasantries exchanged, classic Carol flirtations abound—let me guess, did you rub the back of your neck?”

“I—”

“And then, out of nowhere, you just ask if you can buy her lunch. And she says yes?”

Carol nods sheepishly. Abby throws a tea towel at her.

“Carol!” she exclaims, exasperated. “In what universe would _anyone_ not interpret that as you asking them on a _date_?”

“But I wasn’t!” Carol defends herself. “I was just—I just wanted to get to know her! And anyway, why would she have told me she had a boyfriend if she thought we were on a date? Why would she have gone on a date with me if she has a boyfriend?”

Abby shrugs. “Maybe you were sending mixed signals. Maybe he’s not a very good boyfriend. Anyway, tell me how you left it with her.”

Again, Carol’s thoughts flit back to their meal. They had finished the salads and the drinks, and the waiter had just placed the check on the table. Therese, wide eyed, said, “Should we have—got separate checks?”

Carol had frowned at her. “What? Of course not. I told you, my treat.”

“Oh,” and she had blushed, busying herself with checking her phone and looking around at the restaurant.

Carol got out her credit card and placed it in the check holder, watching Therese surreptitiously the whole time. Thoroughly distracted by the fall of her fine dark hair and the bow of her full bottom lip and the almost doll-like perfection of her facial structure. Yet if a doll evoked childhood, Therese looked nothing like a child to her. Young though she was, she exuded for Carol an almost world-weary maturity. She was someone who had worked hard and suffered disappointment, who had goals for herself and was pursuing them, who had stamina and determination and grit, but who—despite all her obvious accomplishments, carried a quiet sadness in her. And this, Carol recognized all too well.

“So,” Carol had said, handing off the check holder to the waiter. “The week of Christmas is always a mad house, I’m sure you’ll be very busy with your—boyfriend—but maybe we could hang out some time? After the holidays have settled down, I mean. Next week?”

Therese had looked at her again. She looked almost stunned. The irritating revelation of the boyfriend, Richard, was only a few minutes old. Carol wondered in dread if Therese had told her about him to put her off—and if now she was in a panic because it hadn’t worked. Then—

“Would you like to?” Therese asked. And there wasn’t panic in her voice at all, more like— startled excitement.

Carol had grinned at her, “Of course I would. I mean, I asked, didn’t I? Here, let’s exchange numbers. Maybe we could hang out this weekend?”

“I’d like that,” said Therese.

And Carol had practically beamed as they handed each other their phones.

To Abby, Carol says, “We’re supposed to hang out this weekend.”

Abby squeals.

“ _Just_ hang out. You know. We’ll probably end up getting coffee or something. Don’t make a big deal out of this, Abby, please.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it!? Carol. When was the last time you showed any interest in getting to know someone?”

“You make me sound like a hermit! I get out! I meet people.”

“And I know you,” Abby retorts. “This look on your face right now? I haven’t seen it since you and I were together, and that was _five years ago_.”

Carol blanches, instantly flustered and embarrassed, as she always is when Abby brings up their affair. Not because she is ashamed of the affair, but because she is ashamed to have hurt Abby. Abby, who gives her a droll look.

“You have got to stop being terrified every time I mention the fact that we’ve seen each other naked, Carol. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, I—I just—don’t want it to be awkward.”

“You make it awkward when you act like this,” Abby retorts.

There’s a moment of silence. Carol checks the rolls in the oven. Abby grabs something from the fridge. When they face each other again, their eyes meet, and slowly the tension bleeds away, replaced by that specific tenderness that is theirs, and always will be. 

Then Abby smiles, impish and gleeful, “Is she pretty?”

Carol’s eyes roll heavenward. “Fuck, Abby, she’s… She’s _gorgeous_.”

“Let me guess—brunette? Or maybe blonde?”

“Dark hair. And green eyes.”

“ _Damn_.”

“She’s probably a foot shorter than I am but when she looks at me with those eyes I just… _God_.”

“You always liked being taller,” Abby muses. “It’s that big dick energy of yours.”

“There’s something else—”

“Has she got nipple piercings?”

“What!? Abby, how the fuck would I know?”

“Sorry, sorry, you were saying?”

Carol hesitates, eyes cutting away, embarrassed. Then, in a low voice, “She’s… younger than me.”

Abby’s eyes glitter fiendishly. “How young?”

Carol pictures that angelic face, and those wise eyes.

“Twenty-five.”

Abby hoots. “You _cradle_ robber!”

“What’s a cradle robber?” Rindy asks, appearing beside the kitchen island with a suspicious stain of chocolate on her chin.

“Rindy Aird, what have you been eating?” Carol demands, glad for an immediate excuse to change the subject. Rindy’s eyes go buggy. “It better not be any of those M&Ms from the crystal jar. Rindy, you know we’re about to have dinner!”

“Momma, it was just one!”

No child in the history of the universe has simply eaten one M&M. Carol sighs. Abby says, “Well, you better not eat anymore, because girls who are too full on sugar before dinner don’t get dessert, and I’m pretty sure I saw a Milk Bar Peppermint Bark Cake in the fridge. Carol, isn’t that Rindy’s favorite cake?”

“It sure is,” Carol says, “But I don’t think she’ll have any room in her stomach for it now.”

“No, I will!” Rindy cries. “No more M&Ms, I promise!” 

She races off. Abby and Carol grin at each other. Then Abby’s grin turns conspiratorial and sneaky. She says, “So… twenty-five. Sure you know what you’re doing?”

At that, Carol breathes out a sigh of defeat and longing and quiet, aching hope.

“I don’t,” she admits, and then looks at Abby sweetly and fondly and reminds her, “I never did.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter but still, hopefully worth your time!

Therese spends almost all of Christmas Day at Richard’s parents’ house, surrounded by his brothers and their wives and a brood of nieces and nephews. There are presents under the tree for her, and a stocking on the mantle. It’s full of peppermint bark and homemade fudge and toothbrushes and Pilot Precision pens, which she is inordinately pleased about. The gifts are a book of poetry by Robert Frost, a thick wool sweater, and a hat Mrs. Semco knit her—tartan style with red and black and yellow stripes, and a pom-pom on the top. Therese is embarrassed to have received so many gifts, feels guilty about only bringing a 2 lb box of chocolates for the family, though they seem delighted by it.

Richard tells her, “Don’t worry. I got my mom a gift card to Jo-Ann Fabrics and I put your name on it. She’s gonna love it.”

“Oh,” Therese says. “Well, tell me how much it was; I’ll pay you for half.”

“You don’t have to do that, Terry. Anyway, you taking pictures is really the best present she could ask for. She’ll be so excited to see what you get.”

This appeases her, somewhat. She was able to pick up her camera two days ago, and has been dutifully documenting the Semco Family Christmas. It gives her the added benefit of not having to make too much conversation. It’s her impulse to focus on the decorations, the Christmas tree, the dinner table—but she knows that what people really want on Christmas is pictures of family. So, she girds herself, and focuses on the children and the couples and Richard’s parents. Whenever they catch her at it they insist on posing, which she wishes they wouldn’t. The candid photos are so much better. That’s probably why the pictures of the kids are coming out best—they’re too focused on their toys and each other to pay attention to Richard’s quiet girlfriend.

It’s while she looking through some of her recent shots that Therese feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. She takes it out, clicking on the text notification—and her heart stutters.

It’s from Carol.

_/ Hope you’re having a great Christmas so far! Let me know if you still want to hang out this weekend! /_

Therese looks up, glances around, makes sure no one is watching her, and then slips out of the living room. She hurries to Richard’s old bedroom, slipping inside and closing the door after her. She sits on the bed and stares at her screen for long seconds. Finally, she types something out. Erases it. Starts again.

_/ Merry Christmas. Did Rindy open the trainset? Yes I’m free on Sunday. /_

She almost makes a suggestion, almost says, _‘Want to get lunch?’_ or, _‘How about coffee?’_ but doesn’t have the guts, too shy, nervous.

But moments later, Carol’s next text scuppers her:

/ _Sunday would be perfect! What would you like to do? /_

Therese swallows anxiously. Then, another text comes through:

 _/ And Rindy LOVED the trains. She’s playing with them now. They’re currently being hijacked by a troupe of Calico Critters._ 😊 _/_

Therese smiles, ridiculously pleased that her suggestion was a hit. But ten seconds pass, thirty, and Therese knows that the next move is hers. With trembling fingers, she types out the first thing that comes to her, hitting send before she can second guess herself.

_/ I’d love to see the furniture you’re working on /_

Her pulse hammers with nerves. Her throat is dry. She stares down at her phone and with every second that passes, grows more and more anxious. They hit the minute mark. Then two. In horror Therese wonders if she has overstepped somehow, if Carol will just never answer her.

At minute 3, her phone vibrates again.

_/ Sorry, Rindy’s dad will be here in half an hour and she does NOT want to get dressed. Will have to go in a sec. /_

Therese doesn’t answer, heart pounding. Ten, fifteen seconds go by.

_/ My workshop is at my house, if you don’t mind coming to Jersey. I don’t promise it’ll be particularly interesting. /_

Therese lets out a breath, answering quickly:

_/ I don’t mind. 1:00? /_

Almost a minute goes by before Carol answers:

_/ Sorry, I think we’ve reached the meltdown stage of Christmas morning. I’ve got to run but yes, 1 is perfect. I can pick you up at the station near my house. I can’t remember what it’s called. I’ll text you. Merry Christmas, Darling! /_

_Darling…_

_Darling…_

For a moment Therese just stares down at the phone, before she has the wherewithal to answer.

_/ Merry Christmas! /_

She stares at the messages for several moments, reading them over, lingering over Carol’s complete sentences and utter lack of typos or text speak. Jesus, even her texting is elegant. Therese’s thoughts flash back to their parting words outside Scotty’s, to watching Carol pull on her gloves and wrap her scarf around her neck.

“My car is in valet parking,” she’d said. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Therese said, “Oh, no, it’s all right. The subway is just around the corner.”

Carol had looked at her quizzically. “Are you sure?”

Therese was sure. For some reason, Therese feared that getting in a car with Carol would stretch her limits. In the car there would be no table separating them. In the car Carol’s smell would suffuse everything. In the car she would have nothing to do but look at that profile and—

Carol, accepting her refusal, suddenly laughed.

“What is it?” Therese asked her.

“Oh, it’s just—I’m realizing I don’t know how people say goodbye anymore. Hug? Handshake? Air kiss?”

Therese released her own shy chuckle, and meant to say, ‘We can shake hands.’ What came out instead was, “A hug is fine.”

Maybe Therese’s expression mirrored the sudden shock she felt, realizing what she had said, because something sharpened in Carol’s pale gray eyes—just before the older woman stepped tentatively toward her—and folded her in her arms.

It was quick. It was ordinary. And yet for Therese, it shook the foundations of the earth. For a brief moment, her nose was pressed into Carol’s shoulder. For a brief moment, she felt the brush of Carol’s hair and the warm strength of Carol’s arms. She smelled Carol—not just her perfume, but something underneath all that. Something human and rich. They pulled apart, Therese’s nose _just… grazing…_ Carol’s jaw, a brush of softness that seemed somehow to go through her like a javelin. And then, eyes averted from each other, they were saying goodbye and going their separate ways and now—

Now, all Therese can think about is that moment of closeness. That rich, womanly smell. That whisper of skin. Day after tomorrow is Sunday. Day after tomorrow she’ll go to Carol’s house and Carol will show Therese her workshop, her furniture, her tools. Perhaps they’ll stand close to each other at some point, lean together over some project. Perhaps Carol will take Therese’s hand and place it on some damaged piece of furniture and say something like, _‘Feel that? That’s what we’re going to fix.’_ And perhaps Carol won’t let go of her hand. Perhaps Carol won’t move away. Instead she’ll move closer. Pull Therese into her arms, against her body, against that smell, and Therese will—

There’s a sudden knock on the door. Therese jumps, realizing that she is still seated on Richard’s bed. And then the door creaks open, and Richard comes in.

“Terry?” he says, frowning in confusion. “Are you all right?”

Therese pockets her phone, says quickly, “Oh, yes, I—I just needed a minute. You know. Some quiet?”

He gives her a sympathetic grin, “Yeah, I know we can get pretty loud. Christmas dinner isn’t for a couple of hours. Do you want to go for a walk?”

He comes and sits down next to her, slips an arm around her waist. Against her will Therese imagines that it is Carol who has sat down beside her. Carol who is drawing her against her side. Carol nuzzling behind her ear—but Richard hasn’t shaved today, and the scratch of stubble shatters her illusions.

“Or we could stay in here for a while,” he says.

Therese pulls away from his nuzzling, looks into his face. Looks at him seriously, her eyes moving across his features. So often when they’re together, it’s like she’s in another world, almost unaware of him. Now, she tries to focus, to see him. His bluish eyes and his boyish smile. His broad shoulders and his close cut brown hair. There’s something very… masculine about Richard. A man’s man. And when Therese met him she found that appealing. She thought, _this is the sort of boyfriend every girl wants._

“Terry?” Richard asks, his smile crooked, baffled. “What is it?”

Therese kisses him. And not just a perfunctory peck, either. She _really_ kisses him, with more authority than she’s ever shown before, pushing her tongue into his mouth and sliding her hands up into his hair. He reacts at once, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into his lap. Through her spears the thought of herself—straddling Carol. Carol’s long hands, gripping her waist, tugging her close. She shoves the thought aside, kissing him harder. He meets her tongue with his—but it’s too much, too aggressive. She pulls back, kissing his ear and his neck, thinking of that brush of her nose against Carol’s jaw—

Within moments she can feel his erection, pushing up between her legs, and his hands have slid under her sweater, reaching for her breasts, and Therese feels confused, and aroused, and uncomfortable, and she just wants to—

“Oh, Terry,” he moans. “Baby, you feel so good.”

He pushes up under her bra, palm squeezing her breast while his other hand slips down to cup her ass and rock her into him. Therese tries to grind against him, chasing sensation, wanting sensation. She’s turned on. She’s wet. If she can just get him to hold still, maybe she can—

But then he reaches for the button on her jeans. She knows that in a few seconds he’ll have squeezed his hand between her legs and he’ll start rubbing her. He always does it too hard; his fingers are always too dry. She tried to show him, in the beginning, but he just never seemed to get it. And Therese doesn’t want him to touch her like that. Feels suddenly squeamish, just at the thought of it.

She pulls back from kissing his neck, and grabs his wrist, stopping him. He looks into her eyes, his pupils blown. He’s breathing hard, clearly excited.

“We—we can’t,” she says. “Not with your—family out there.”

He looks at her pleadingly. “Oh, Terry, come on, please. I’ll be quick.”

She has no doubt of that. And maybe another day she’d just give in. Jerk him off or even give him a blow job just so he doesn’t think she’s a total prude. But today—today she just can’t do it.

She climbs off his lap. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I—shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

“Um, _yeah_ ,” he says, irritated. He gestures down at himself. “What am I supposed to do with this, huh?”

Therese adjusts her mangled bra under her shirt. She rebuttons her jeans.

“I’m sorry.”

He sighs again. Says after a moment, “It’s all right, okay. I just—I need a minute. Why don’t you go back out and I’ll—be right there.”

Therese nods, jumps at the opportunity, shutting the door behind her. In the hallway, she stands still for a minute, stunned at herself.

What the _hell_ is going on with her? She feels warm, aching, needy—and not for Richard. She was thinking of Carol. She can’t stop thinking of Carol. She was halfway to fucking Richard with Carol’s smell and softness suffusing every inch of her. This isn’t the kind of person she is. She doesn’t—

Suddenly her phone vibrates. She grabs it out of her pocket, swiping it open—it’s Dannie.

_/ Xmas sucks. Gonna get drnk with Phil n watch zombie movies. U in? /_

Therese stares at the message for several seconds, then answers:

_/ When? /_

He answers:

_/ NOW, binch. /_

_/ At Richard’s family for dinner_ ☹ _Can come after? /_

_/ Fine but will probly be wasted. DONT BRING RICHARD!!! /_

Therese snorts, grins, and puts her phone away. Suddenly she can’t think of anything better than getting drunk with Dannie and Phil—and forgetting everything else.


	8. Chapter 8

_All right, Ross, now remember what we talked about. She is straight. She has a boyfriend. You are just hanging out. You are hanging out because you are pathetic and need friends other than Abby. That is ALL this is. Two friends. Hanging out._

Some version of this lecture has been cycling through Carol’s mind all morning. But as she stands in the parking lot outside the train station, Carol finds that no amount of stern self-talk can quite overwhelm that other voice in her head, that nervous, eager, hopeful voice that says, _Maybe she’s bi. Maybe she hates her boyfriend. Maybe she likes you, too…_

 _No!_ her wiser voice snaps back. _Stop it. You are two friends, two platonic friends. And you are hanging out._

“Riiiiight,” Abby had said last night on the phone. “Let me guess: Netflix and chill?”

“What the fuck is that?” Carol retorted.

Abby made a disgusted sound and hung up.

Carol sighs, adjusts the collar of her coat, crosses her arms and then starts rifling through her purse, searching for the vape pen. She takes a deep drag, irritated by the mint flavor. Yes, of course, _technically_ it tastes ‘good’, but at this moment Carol absolutely craves the foul acridity of a real cigarette. She takes another pull, stuffs the pen back in her purse, and looks up just in time to see Therese emerge from the station.

They see each other at once, and Therese’s sweet face breaks out in a smile that is so genuine, so unselfconscious, that Carol can’t help smiling back at her, heart leaping with joy. As Therese moves swiftly toward her, Carol has to try very hard not to check her out. It’s a near thing, because Therese is dressed a little differently than she’s seen before. Dark wash jeans and ankle boots; a knee-length coat with a slim silhouette; unbuttoned, it reveals a green mock neck sweater underneath. She looks… delicious.

_Stop it!_

“Hello,” Therese greets her, still with that beaming smile. “It’s nice of you to pick me up. I could have got an Uber.”

“Nonsense!” Carol says, and nods them toward the parking lot. “I thought we could grab coffee on the way back. Rindy was begging me for a hot cocoa.”

“Rindy’s at the house?” asks Therese, walking beside her.

Something tightens in Carol’s chest and it’s a half beat before she answers, “Yes, I… hope that’s okay?”

Therese looks at her quickly, brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course it’s okay. What kind of an asshole would I be if it wasn’t okay for your daughter to be in your own house? No, I just meant—I’ll get to meet her.”

Carol has to fight not to gasp from relief. What would she have done if Therese responded differently? Carol has plenty of acquaintances who are, in their own words, _‘Not kid people.’_ Which is perfectly fine until they start turning up their noses at the merest mention of children, as if it offends them that any adult would bring a child into their orbit. If Therese was like that—

“She’s a character,” Carol says, trying to get back on track. “We’re taking our lives into our hands giving her sugar, but it’s still the holiday, so…”

In the drive-thru, Therese orders a peppermint mocha with whipped cream, and Carol is so charmed by it that she gets the same thing, and a peppermint hot chocolate for Rindy, and a cappuccino for Rindy’s nanny, Vanessa. She’s just reaching into her wallet when suddenly Therese is leaning over her, passing her credit card to the barista. Carol goes stock still, lungs compressing as she pulls in the smell of Therese’s body—and tries to hold it there. When Therese pulls back, she’s flushed, as if realizing it was unusual to lean over her like that. But she’s also smiling.

She says, “My treat.”

“Darling, you don’t have to do that—”

“Too late,” Therese smirks, reaching into her purse again and pulling out a five dollar bill. She hesitates, then offers it to Carol. “Will you put that in the tip jar, please?”

Carol pauses, but can’t resist, eyebrow hiking up as she asks, “You don’t just want to climb over me this time?”

Therese’s instant blush feels like a victory. Carol laughs and waves the five dollar bill aside. “Let me get the tip, at least.”

A few minutes later, Therese has the tray of coffees on her lap, and they are on their way. It’s only a ten minute drive to Carol’s house, and as they go she finds herself wishing that it was longer. That it would never end. Because despite her nervousness, and Therese’s blush, and the residual palpitations that Therese’s nearness have caused her—the conversation flows easily between them. They talk about their Christmases. They talk about the coming year. Therese explains a little bit about her master’s program and how she got into bartending, through her best friend, Dannie. Therese tells her about Dannie and Carol tells Therese about Abby and they agree that their best friends would like each other, which feels in the moment like saying, _‘My best friend would like_ you _. And that’s the most important test, isn’t it?’_

It’s just as they’re turning down the country road three blocks from Carol’s that she spots the farmhouse on the corner—there’s a small crowd gathered and the farm stand looks to be open.

“Oh, hold on!” Carol exclaims, parking them along the road.

“What is it?” Therese asks.

“The woman who owns this farm makes the most fucking delicious jam, and she promised she’d have more this weekend. I’ve just got to try and grab one before they’re all sold out. Hang on, I’ll be right back!”

She leaves Therese in the car, jogging up the drive. It’s a brisk morning, and the smells of hot cocoa and cider and homemade donuts fill the plot where fifteen or twenty patrons have congregated. To Carol’s glee, there are two jars of the chipotle raspberry jam left, and she seizes both. The farmer, Mrs. Gleese, knows Carol, and they make friendly small talk as she pays.

“You going to grab a cider while you’re here, honey?” Mrs. Gleese asks.

“Oh, I _just_ grabbed coffee,” Carol laments.

“Well, get some donuts at least. They’re fresh out of the fryer and _damn_ good.”

Carol laughs. “I will! Merry Christmas.”

So she stops at the donut stand, ordering a half-dozen. It’s while she waits for Mrs. Gleese’s teenage son to finish packaging them that she glances back toward the car—and realizes that Therese has stepped out. Therese is standing next to the car and pointing a camera at her. Surprised, Carol glances away. Is Therese taking a picture of her? Or just of the farm? Carol didn’t even know she had a camera on her. Slowly, self-consciously, Carol adjusts the collar of her coat. She sweeps a hand through her hair, glancing Therese’s way again, wondering—

“Here you go, Ma’am,” says the teenager.

He holds out her package of donuts. She can feels when she takes it from him that they’re still warm. She puts a tip in the jar and thanks him, and turns back toward the street. Therese appears to have gotten into the car again. She rejoins her, and there’s no sign of a camera.

“Did they have what you wanted?” Therese asks.

Carol gives her a sidelong glance and starts up the car. “They did.”

<><><>

Rindy is shy at first, but when Carol tells her that Therese brought her a peppermint hot chocolate, she immediately starts to thaw. Vanessa bids them goodbye, gratefully grasping her cappuccino, and they gather in the breakfast nook to have their drinks and donuts. Therese quickly becomes the focus of Rindy’s attention. At first this makes Carol anxious, but Therese responds to the smattering of questions with poise, treating Rindy seriously, respectfully, and with a sly humor that soon has the four-year-old in thrall.

“I don’t like any donuts but these donuts,” Rindy declares, “The cimamim ones are the best kind.”

“Cinnamon, sweetheart,” corrects Carol.

Rindy ignores her, asking Therese, “Don’t you think the cimamim ones are the best?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Therese thoughtfully, regarding her donut. “Have you ever had a broccoli donut?”

Rindy’s eyes widen, then narrow, “What? Noooo!”

“You haven’t?” Therese tsks, glancing at Carol with a twinkle in her eyes, and says, “I quite like them.”

“Oh yes,” Carol agrees. “They’re almost as good as green bean donuts.”

Rindy looks scandalized. “That’s _disgusting_!” she cries.

“Oh, I suppose you prefer _hamburger_ donuts, is that it?” Therese asks.

“Noooo!”

“What about fish stick donuts?” asks Carol.

Rindy looks back and forth between them, suspicious, before all at once the lightbulbs go on in her big brown eyes, and she says deviously, “I know what Trez likes— _toothpaste_ donuts!”

Therese makes a sound of mock indignation, and Rindy is in fits. The game soon devolves into chaos, with everyone trying to one up everyone else’s donut flavors, until the donuts are eaten and the hot chocolate has stained Rindy’s mouth and chin, at which point she asks to play Go Fish.

“Oh, munchkin,” Carol says, “I don’t know that Therese wants to—”

“I _love_ Go Fish,” Therese interrupts.

“See!?” Rindy cries, and gets down from her chair, racing off.

Carol, feeling a little flushed and nervous, tells Therese, “You don’t have to play with her. Usually at this point I let her watch one of her shows just before her afternoon nap.”

Therese smiles, a smile so gentle and bewitching that Carol feels momentarily stunned by it.

“It’s fine,” she murmurs. “I haven’t played with children in a while. It’s good to know I haven’t completely lost my touch.”

Carol smiles back, with a little shake of the head, “No… I’d say you’re a hit.”

Now they are both smiling, and their eyes are locked, and something warm and sweet seems to gather between them.

Then Therese asks, with a smile that cannot be described as anything but coy, “Will I still get to see your workshop?”

 _If it’s the last thing I fucking do,_ Carol thinks.

“Yes, of course. After she goes down, we can—”

“Found it!” shouts Rindy, charging back into the kitchen with the deck of Go Fish cards clasped in both hands. 

Forty minutes later, Therese and Carol have let Rindy win two rounds, and taken one each themselves, before Carol announces that it’s naptime. Rindy looks sharply at Therese.

“Will you be here after naptime?”

For the first time, Therese looks a little thrown by the child, her eyes wide as she glances at Carol and back and Rindy, “Well, I… I don’t know, actually, I—”

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” Carol says, eyes focused on the cards that she’s shuffling. When Therese doesn’t immediately respond, she takes the risk of looking up at her. Those green eyes are incredible. Carol shrugs. “Only if you want, of course.” Therese’s mouth opens and closes, and Carol, not wanting to pressure her, says, “Either way, Ms. Rindy, it’s time for that nap. So say goodbye to Therese just in case she can’t stay for dinner.”

It takes about twenty minutes to get Rindy settled down, and when Carol comes back into the kitchen Therese is still seated in the breakfast nook, looking out the window toward the spacious backyard and the workshop. She hears Carol approach, and then they are looking at each other again. It’s quiet. For the first time, an awkwardness settles between them, before Carol gets up the nerve to ask, “Want to see the workshop?”

Therese’s smile is beatific. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

Carol leads her out the back, walking the path to the workshop and unlocking the door. She stands aside so Therese can enter ahead of her, and feels—inexplicably nervous. She watches Therese, her slim, small body, as she moves into the shop and stands, looking around. Carol closes the door after them, and then she, too, stands motionless. Watching. Therese looks toward the dining chairs Carol has been working on, and Carol gets a perfect view of her profile. Then she looks the other way, toward projects that haven’t started yet. She turns around, regarding Carol with an expression of delight.

“This is your work?” she asks.

Carol nods. Therese’s smile broadens.

“Will you show me?”

Heart in her throat, Carol shows her. She explains to her what the tools are: her various scrapers and putty knives and power sanders; the different sponges and cloths and chemicals she uses. She shows off her work bench with its assortment of hammers and clamps. Her safety equipment. At each step Therese has questions—why does one project call for the carbide scraper rather than the contour scraper? Why the orbital sander? What are the painter’s pyramids for? What is tack cloth?

Carol is taken aback by her curiosity. When they look at the chairs themselves and Carol explains the process she’s taking them through, Therese’s brow furrows in thoughtful concentration. She nods and smiles and seems genuinely interested. It’s so… unusual. Whereas on those occasions that Carol has explained her work to others in brief, perfunctory sentences, Therese makes her want to expand, to detail, to explain.

“Where did you learn all this?” Therese asks, eyes sweeping over the tools and the furniture, fingers testing the plane of one chair’s leg, searching for the scratches that Carol has already repaired. Carol notices that Therese’s nose is a little red, the cold of the workshop getting to her, and yet she hasn’t said a word about it.

“Oh,” Carol laughs, brief, self-deprecating. “I took a class in college. Just an introductory class. I had a crush on another student, if you’ll believe it, and she was taking the class, so I followed her into it.”

Carol doesn’t even realize what she has revealed until the words are out, until she senses the subtle tightening of Therese’s body besides her. Dread pools in Carol’s stomach, but—

“You learned all this from a class?” Therese asks, looking directly at her.

“Oh, no. Honestly? I’m self-taught. The class gave me some foundation but the rest of it was reading and YouTube videos and… trial and error.”

Therese looks at the chairs again. She murmurs, “That’s incredible.”

A moment of silence. Carol watches Therese’s fingers, still sliding across the piece of furniture, and she’s just about to ask her—

The sound of a phone going off startles them. Therese stands up, reaches into her pocket muttering, “Sorry,” and looks at the caller. She must choose not to take it for a moment later the phone is in her pocket again. But now she is standing up, and looking toward the back of the shop.

“What’s that?” she asks, already walking toward the hope chest.

“Oh,” Carol stands up, too, embarrassed, shoving her hands into her back pockets. “Oh, that’s just…”

Therese has already reached it, is kneeling and running a hand across the half-finished detailing on the surface. She looks back, looks up at Carol, who is now standing behind her. Her eyes are wide.

“Carol, are you—did you carve this?”

Carol is grateful for the chill in the shop; her blush can easily be passed off as a reaction to the cold. “It’s just a—side project,” she says.

Therese is gazing at the carvings in obvious fascination. It’s a woodland scene. Trees, and mountains and a creek. The beginnings of a few small animals. The first rough outline of what will eventually be a cabin.

“It’s gorgeous,” Therese says, “Is it based on something? A real place?”

“I grew up in the Pacific Northwest,” Carol says. “So… I suppose it’s based on that.”

Therese looks at her in surprise, “Really? I just assumed that you were a New Yorker, through and through.”

Carol laughs again, “Oh, I am. I came here for boarding school. Then I stayed on to go to college at Barnard. I haven’t lived out West since I was fifteen.”

“Do you ever go back?” Therese asks.

Carol shakes her head, “No, I… don’t have contact with any family out there. Some day I hope to take Rindy but…” she trails off. Watches as Therese uses one finger to etch the branches of a tree. Carol asks, “Did you grow up in the city?”

Therese shakes her head, “No. Syracuse. I’m like you, I… came here for school.” Then, quietly, almost dreamily, she says, “It’s so beautiful, Carol. I don’t think I could ever make something this beautiful.”

Carol frowns, and squats down next to her. Without thinking she asks, “But you’re a photographer, aren’t you? Was that you, taking my photograph?”

Therese looks at her again, startled, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“Oh, don’t apologize,” Carol insists.

Therese glances embarrassedly away, says, “I’ve just been trying to… Well, I have a friend who told me I should be more interested in humans.”

Carol can’t help her dry chuckle. Humans. What a dangerous subject to be interested in. She asks, “And how’s that going?”

She’s completely unprepared for the way Therese looks at her again. Looks right into her eyes and says with the faintest smile, “It’s going well, actually.”

Carol’s heart stutters. _What does she mean? Does she mean me? Is she interested in me?_

Carol murmurs, “I’m glad,” and watches Therese return her eyes to the hope chest, fingers exploring again, almost as if she were stroking the keys of a piano.

Carol says, “So I was right about you, then?” A perplexed look. “You _are_ an artist.” Therese scoffs, but Carol grins at her, “Oh, come on. If an accountant can read Toni Morrison then an account can also certainly be an artist.”

“It’s just something I do. Something I’ve always done.” Suddenly her face changes, grows more pensive, but also—melancholy. She says, “I used to want to _be_ a photographer, actually. When I was fourteen I took a class in school and my foster parents got me a camera. I fell in love with it. But it’s no way to make a living, and so… well…”

She trails off, still staring at the hope chest. Her words flood Carol with an aching sadness, imbued with longing to go back and meet fourteen-year-old Therese and give her everything she needs, to make her dreams come true. But that child is years beyond her reach, and in this moment Therese seems beyond her reach, too, quiet, and thoughtful, and lost in memories.

Carol can think of only one way to bring her back. She asks, “Will you show me your work?”

With a slow blink, Therese returns. “Sure,” she says, eyes still averted, her shyness so… compelling. “But I mean, I’m not… I’m not any kind of artist, you know. I’ve never sold anything or even shown a picture to someone who could buy one. I don’t even have a decent camera—”

Suddenly, her cellphone rings again. Therese mutters a curse, pulls it out. Carol’s sees the incoming call: Richard. But once more, Therese silences it and puts the phone away. She looks anxious. 

Carol ignores the call, ignores the interruption it posed, and taps a gentle finger on Therese’s knee. Startled, Therese looks at her, and Carol’s voice is low and soft and full of a deeper feeling than she can name, “If you create art, then you’re an artist. Don’t judge yourself. Don’t dismiss yourself. All you can do is keep working. Use what feels right. Throw away the rest.”

Therese regards her thoughtfully, seems to really _think_ about what she’s said, before murmuring, “I suppose…”

Carol smiles at her, and Therese smiles back. Therese says, “I’ve got most of my stuff at home, on my laptop.”

Carol’s smile widens. She flicks an eyebrow, half-teasing, and shrugs. “Invite me round.”

 _Please,_ her thoughts whisper. _Invite me round. Invite me in. Bring me to your home and show me your photographs. I promise to hold them for the precious thing that they are..._

Therese stares at her, in a way that makes Carol think that somehow she heard those thoughts. Heard that promise. Her eyes are so… so green. And she’s closer than Carol realized. Close enough to touch her knee. To hear her little indrawn breath. To see the emotion in her eyes as they flit from Carol’s eyes to Carol’s lips, her own parting as if to—

The fucking phone rings again.

Therese leaps up, muttering, stepping away, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just let me… just let me take this.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little long, and heavier than its predecessors. Content warning for memories of childhood trauma.

_I would have kissed her,_ Therese thinks. _We were so close. She was looking right at me and I—would have kissed her._

Fingers trembling, she digs the phone out of her pocket again. Richard, again. He called her this morning. He called her last night. And now apparently he is going to just keep fucking calling until she—

Therese puts the phone to her ear, snaps, “Hello?”

“Terry?”

“Hi,” she says, trying very hard to control the thing in her voice that wants to scream. “What’s up?”

A beat of silence. An incredulous, “What’s up?”

Therese swallows. “Yeah, I—I’m sorry I keep missing you. Did you need something?”

Another silence. Behind her, Therese can feel Carol’s presence. Therese walks back toward the door into the shop, trying to put distance between them. To put distance between Carol and Richard. She doesn’t want Richard anywhere near Carol.

Richard says, “Are you kidding me right now?”

“No, I’m not kidding you. I’m asking you. What’s up?”

An angry scoff, “Therese, you bailed on Christmas the second dinner was over. You said you’d call me that night and then you didn’t. We were supposed to spend yesterday together and you bailed on that, too. And now, I’ve been calling you all morning and you’re ignoring my calls. What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” says Therese rigidly.

“Where are you? I’m at your apartment and you’re not here.”

At that, something cold goes through her, a sudden fury. What, so now he’s showing up uninvited it? Checking up on her? Who the fuck does he—

“I’m in Jersey,” she says. “I’m spending the day with a friend.”

“Who do you know in Jersey?”

Therese grinds her teeth. “I’m not really liking this Spanish inquisition, Richard.”

“If you’re cheating on me with some guy, you’d better tell me right now, or I swear—”

“I’m not cheating on you, Richard,” she hisses into the phone. “My friend, _Carol_ , lives in Jersey and I’m at her house and I didn’t know you needed to keep tabs on me or who my friends are!”

At the mention of Carol’s name, Richard goes silent. After a moment he says gruffly, “Oh.”

Therese says nothing.

A beat later, “I’ve never heard you mention a friend named Carol.”

“Again, I didn’t realize you expected me to give you a book report on everyone I hang out with.”

He sighs, chastened, “Okay, Christ, I’m sorry, all right? You haven’t been answering my calls and I just… I just got a little paranoid, okay? Especially after Christmas. You just took off—”

“I took off to hang out with Dannie. I never promised to spend all of Christmas with you, Richard.”

“I know.” Now he sounds sulky. “I just… I miss you, okay?”

Therese blows a breath out through her nostrils. For some reason, this puppy dog confession makes her angrier than anything, but she knows that she can’t exactly scream at him for wanting to see her. Was it just a couple of days ago that she was thinking she didn’t feel strongly enough to get angry at him? Well, so much for that. She sets her jaw, counts to ten, marshals an adolescence full of mandatory therapy to keep her temper in check.

“Can I see you tonight?” he asks.

She has never been so annoyed to have a night off from work. Everything in her wants to say no. And yet what comes out is, “Fine. I’ll come to yours at 6, okay?”

Again, he sounds sulky, wounded, only grudgingly appeased, “Okay.”

“Goodbye, Richard.” 

She hangs up.

She stands for a moment with her back to the workshop. She looks out through the window in the door, toward the house. Carol’s house. Carol’s… _palace_ of a New Jersey house. She takes a deep breath and pockets her phone and turns around, saying, “I’m… sorry about that.”

Carol is standing at her workbench, back turned. After a moment she faces Therese. She’s smiling in a tight way, and there’s something cold in her eyes.

“Sorted everything out?” she asks.

Therese hesitates. When they were looking at the hope chest together, when Carol said those things to her, asked to see her work, called her an artist—it felt as if something sweet and intimate and green was blooming between them. It felt like being seen for the first time in her life, seen and respected and held up to the sun, so that the tiny saplings that were inside her might catch the warmth, and grow.

But now, all that warmth has evaporated, and the space between them could host a glacier. Therese has a sinking feeling of shame.

She says, “Yeah, he just… He worries, sometimes, you know? If I don’t pick up he thinks—”

“That you’re cheating on him?” asks Carol flatly. When Therese only looks at her, the older woman’s tight smile takes on a razor edge. “Well, now he knows you were with me, I’m sure he realizes he has nothing to worry about.”

The feeling of shame intensifies. Therese doesn’t know what to do with it, how to— _explain_.

Carol speaks before she can, “I guess you’d better get back the city, hadn’t you? I’m afraid I can’t drive you to the station this time, with Rindy here.”

“Oh,” Therese’s stomach drops. It’s only 3 o’clock in the afternoon. She could stay another hour, even two, and still have time to meet Richard at 6:00. But Carol’s statement squashes that possibility. “Oh,” she repeats, “It’s… it’s okay. Like I said, I can… I can get an Uber.”

Carol is moving some things around on her bench, not looking at her. She says, “Okay. I’ll walk you out.”

And then she is striding past Therese, opening the shop door, and Therese has no choice but to quit the beautiful magic of this space.

Just a couple minutes later, Carol stands with her on the porch as they wait for her driver. It’s quiet between them, that glacial distance only seeming to grow. Therese, feeling miserable, bucks up enough courage to ask, “Do you want to get coffee… later this week?”

Carol, who has been avoiding looking at her, now looks at her with an expression that’s witheringly empty.

“Don’t you have school starting?”

“Oh—not… not until next week.”

“Hmm. I suppose between your job and your classes, you probably don’t have much time for coming out here.”

For a moment Therese doesn’t know what to say. She can feel that the ground between them has shifted, that the warmth between them has banked—but is Carol saying she never wants to see her again? The thought is so terrifying Therese feels instantly ill.

“You could—” she hesitates. Suddenly, reextending the invitation to her apartment feels wrong. She says, “I know you’re a regular at The McKinley. I work every night this week. I owe you that old-fashioned.”

She lets the rest of it hang, too embarrassed and afraid to suggest a proper plan, and have it rejected. Carol regards her seriously for a moment, and then they both hear the sound of the Uber, pulling into the long driveway. Therese’s body tightens, as if she can see a timer counting down its last seconds, and afterwards—afterwards will be a world without Carol.

“Here we are,” Carol says, with false brightness. “Thanks again for coming out, and for the coffees.”

“You—you’re welcome.”

“I hope the new semester starts well.”

_No no no!_

“Carol.”

Something in Therese’s voice, some deep and searching note, must puncture Carol’s newly grown and icy carapace, because the older woman looks at her, really looks at her, looks into her eyes as she hasn’t done in several minutes. That is when Therese sees it—not emptiness, coldness, indifference. _Hurt_. Therese has hurt her, and Therese isn’t entirely sure how, and Therese has no idea what could fix it.

“I—” Therese says. The Uber has pulled up next to them. Out of time. In a last ditch effort, a Hail Mary pass, a wild shot in the dark, Therese tells her, “I really loved your workshop.”

The hurt in Carol’s eyes takes on a deeper hue, complemented by something that looks very much to Therese like longing. But Carol only gives a little nod of acknowledgment. Carol opens the car door for her. Moments later, the door shuts, the sound definitive, and awful.

<><><>

From the minute she shows up at Richard’s, she knows it isn’t going to go well. He’s still sulky, and he wants to know who Carol is. Therese, exhausted and frustrated and aching inside, gives him a bare bones account, hoping that will be the end of it. But—

“Wait a second,” Richard says. “You’re telling me this lady is some—rich Jersey housewife and she just… wanted to hang out with you?”

Something about this, about the unspoken accusation in his words, rankles her.

“We had lunch,” she says wearily. “It was spontaneous. We got along.”

“You got along?” he repeats. “What the fuck, Terry. You don’t even know her!”

“Isn’t that what a new friendship is? You meet someone, and _get to know_ them?”

When she looks at him his face is full of incredulity and scorn. He demands, “What would possibly make you want to hang out with some Jersey WASP?”

Therese scowls. “I just like her is all. I’m fond anyone I can really talk to.”

He crosses his arm with a scoff of laughter. Says suspiciously, “I don’t know about this. It sounds super shady. You don’t know what this woman wants from you.”

These words hit a nerve she didn’t even know was exposed. Rage floods through her. She had been poking in the fridge but now she slams it shut and whirls on him. “Because that’s the only reason a woman like that would want to hang out with me, right? Because I’m just a white trash foster kid from Syracuse. The only reason someone with any class would lower themselves to spend time with me is cause they want something.”

Richard’s eyes widen. “What? Terry, no, that’s not what I’m saying, I—”

“Yes you are!”

“I’m just saying, people like that. They—you know. They _use_ you. Then they get tired of you and throw you away. It’s not about you, Terry, it’s about _them_!”

Therese’s skin is burning, her eyes are burning, she hates him in this moment but even more she hates that he might be right. What would Carol want with her? Why would Carol, rich, elegant, sophisticated Carol, show interest in a fucking bartender? What if it’s all just some game? What if Carol is just using her for something? And if so… then what is the ‘something’? What does Carol _really_ want with her?

“Carol isn’t like that,” Therese retorts, voice weak.

He puts his hands on his hips, looking at her condescendingly.

“She’s not!”

“I don’t care,” he snaps. “I don’t care about it. I care about you and me! What is going _on with_ you? I asked you a _month_ ago to come to Paris with me for Spring break, and you still haven’t answered me. We’ve barely seen each other for weeks. We never have sex. And then you meet some— _whoever_ she is—and you start acting like some schoolgirl with a crush!”

“Shut up, Richard.”

“ _You’re_ the one who’s—”

“You know what, I’ve gotta go.” 

Richard’s eyes widen in startlement. “What!?” he cries. “You just got here!”

She walks out of the kitchen, aware of him following her, watching her. She grabs her coat and shrugs it on.

“Oh come on!” Richard cries. “Don’t be like this. Look, I’m sorry—”

She ignores him. She grabs her bag and heads for his door. She’s just reaching for the doorknob when she feels a frisson of unease, sensing something about to happen—and then he’s behind her, grabbing her elbow—

What goes through Therese in that moment is a shrieking, irrational panic. Her vision turns white. She flails away from him, nearly screaming, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

“Whoa!” Richard cries, stepping back with hands held up. “Whoa, Terry, I’m sorry! Jesus, what the fuck?”

But Therese is breathing so hard she’s afraid she’s going to hyperventilate. She knows what happens next. Sees it happen to her mom. Grabbed from behind. Thrown again the wall. A hard slap. A punch. A kick. Tried to avoid it—never wanted it to happen to her—but couldn’t stop it stop them stop—

 _Breathe_ , Therese tells herself _. Breathe. You’re okay. Richard isn’t them. You don’t need him to pay your bills. You don’t need him at all. You’re okay. He’s never hurt you._

Thank God, Richard has stepped back a few feet, hands still held up and eyes wide. If she could so much as smell him right now, she thinks she might lose it completely. As it is, some of her momentary terror begins to clear with his distance. 

Swallowing hard, she fumbles for the door. “I have to go, Richard.”

This time he doesn’t try to stop her. He just watches, amazed, as Therese slips out. 

On the street, fingers trembling, she reaches for her phone. She wants to call Carol. It’s an instant, almost overwhelming urge. She wants to call Carol, to hear Carol’s voice—that musical, beautiful voice that feels like silk in her ears. But then she remembers why she can’t call Carol, and that’s when tears start leaking from her eyes. She walks swiftly toward the subway, and calls Dannie.

He answers on the second ring. “Yo, Belivet! What’s up? I guess the Christmas hangover didn’t kill you? Speak for yourself!”

Therese swallows hard, wipes her tears away, squeaks, “Can you… can you meet me somewhere?”

There’s a half beat of silence. Dannie’s playfulness evaporates, replaced by a calm, “Yes. Where?”

Forty minutes later, they’re in a booth at _The Drake_ , the bar where Therese used to work. Therese is cradling a pint of beer and Dannie is drinking from his. He’s sitting next to her in the booth. He knows better than to touch her at moments like this, but he also knows that sometimes what she needs is a bulwark between her and the outer world. Tucked in the corner of the booth, it’s comforting to know that his body blocks her from view.

Dannie mutters, “I should go over there and punch him.”

Therese sighs. Takes a drink. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Not fair? You’ve told him before you don’t like anyone coming up behind you. And no guy should need to be told not to grab his girlfriend.”

“You and I both know that just cause we grew up like that doesn’t mean we get to assume everyone around us is an abuser. And Richard is like, the least likely guy I can imagine to actually hurt me. He was upset. He didn’t grab me hard. He was just trying to keep me from—”

“I don’t fucking care,” Dannie mutters.

They go silent, but after the first tense moment, it relaxes. Their silence is calm, familiar. Safe. It’s been that way with Dannie from the beginning, from that first Freshman Composition class where they met. She can’t explain what it was, but she recognized him. Or, maybe, recognized where he came from, what he’d been through. And he recognized her right back. The foster thing. They’ve told each other things they never told anyone else.

Therese knows about Dannie’s dad, who started beating him when he was just four. It took the system ten years to figure out what was going on and take him from that house. But Dannie’s foster parents weren’t much better. Religious. They had the same objection to Dannie that his father had, and by sixteen he was on the streets, avoiding CPS and making his own way. His first year at CUNY Brooklyn, he was homeless. Therese helped him get on his feet.

She’s always thought she was lucky, compared to Dannie. None of her mom’s boyfriends ever touched her. Yeah, she had to watch what they did to her mom, and yeah, her mom always put the boyfriends first—but Therese knows the system well enough to understand how much worse things could have been for her. As for the revolving door of foster homes and residential care centers, the worst she ever experienced was a foster dad with roaming eyes and a group of girls in residential who followed her down an alley and beat her up. Needless to say, no single placement ever worked out.

Dannie finishes off his first pint, and looks at her. He’s wearing eyeliner tonight, and he dyed his hair a purplish pink on Christmas day. His nails are painted bright blue. He’s always been so beautiful.

“How you feelin’?” he asks.

Therese nods, “Better. It wasn’t nearly as bad as other times it’s happened. I came out of it pretty quick. It just… took me surprise.”

He smiles. “These things always do.”

“I think I scared the shit out of Richard.”

“Good.”

She rolls her eyes, “Please don’t hold this against him, Dannie.”

“No promises.”

She smiles. Dannie signals the bartender for a second round.

“So, what else?” he asks. “Come on, let’s shake it off. What have you been up to since Christmas?”

Therese’s eyes widen. She hides in her glass of beer, drinking down the last half in one slow gulp as she tries to think how to answer him. But when she puts down the pint, he’s looking at her with a quirked eyebrow, lips beginning to curve with one of his cheeky little grins.

“Uh-oh,” he says.

“What?”

“Um, I’m sorry, did you just pound that beer?”

“No.”

“Excuse me, but I asked what else was going on and you immediately went frat boy on me. Also, you’re blushing. Don’t bullshit me, Belivet, something is up.” Therese sighs. He grins brighter, asking in delight, “Do you have a _secret_?”

“Oh, fuck off, Dannie,” she says without bite.

He starts laughing. “You do! Therese Belivet has a secret. This is fucking awesome. You never keep secrets from me. What happened?”

Thankfully, the bartender shows up with their beers. But though Therese hopes this will distract Dannie for a minute, she’s wrong. He doesn’t even pick up his glass, just looking at her with cocked eyebrow. Therese isn’t really sure why she hasn’t told Dannie about Carol. Maybe because, if she tells him, it’ll make the whole thing… real.

“It’s just,” she palms the pint of beer between both hands, gazing down into the foam. “I just sort of… I met someone.”

Dannie presses his hands down into the table like he’s gonna vault into a handstand.

“Excuse you, what!?”

Therese blushes scarlet. “I… I—look you’ve got to promise not to freak out.”

“I reject that condition.”

“It’s just—I don’t really know what it is or… what it means. And it’s not—like, nothing has happened. We’ve just hung out a couple of times and anyway, I think I blew it today. Like, seriously blew it, Dannie, and I—”

For some reason, saying it out loud like this brings the full force of the day down on her like an anvil. Suddenly, her eyes are burning with tears. Dannie, always hyper-attuned to the subtlest changes in the air, immediately calms down. He puts a gentle hand under the table, on her knee, and squeezes.

“Look, it’s okay, Therese. You can tell me anything. I promise I won’t freak out.”

Therese swallows, trying to marshal her tears. Then, eyes still gazing into her glass, she whispers, “I met a woman.”

Beside her, Dannie is quiet. She dares to look at him, and though he is affecting calm quite impressively, she can see the excited glitter in his eyes.

“Okay…” he says, clearly trying to stay calm.

“It was at the holiday market,” Therese explains. “She needed help finding a gift for her daughter and… well, I ran into her later at The McKinley. And, well, it’s a long story, but she came back to the market the next day and we… had lunch.”

Beside her, Dannie’s knees have started bouncing with excitement. He sees her droll look and forces himself to stop, putting on a very solemn face and nodding wisely.

“Very well. Continue.”

“Her name is Carol.”

“Jesus, is she sixty?”

“She’s thirty five.”

“All right, cool, cool cool cool cool cool.”

“Dannie.”

“I am being perfectly calm!” he exclaims. “My best friend has just informed me that she’s hot for a cougar and I have not screamed or jumped up and down or anything!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“So what else. Come on, tell me everything!”

Despite the pain she has felt since leaving Carol, there’s something about Dannie’s vibrating excitement that wakes a tiny flame of excitement in her, too. She has felt so confused these past few days, so anxious, so frustrated with herself and with these new, unfamiliar feelings. But Dannie is not scandalized, nor judgmental, nor even skeptical—only deeply curious and delighted. So, with a flutter of nerves but also pleasure, Therese begins to tell him. And soon, she is telling him _everything_. Everything from seeing Carol across the market to standing with her outside her house as the Uber drove up. Like her, he grows more serious as she describes her final minutes with Carol. But though Therese is convinced she has behaved badly somehow, he, once again, doesn’t judge her.

He says, “You know she wouldn’t have acted like that if she didn’t like you.”

Therese shakes her head. “No, I think she was… put off. You know, this young kid in her house having a fight with her boyfriend. She must have realized that I’m—too immature for her, or something.”

Dannie snorts. “Sweetheart, you are the farthest thing in the world from immature. But you _are_ a babe in the woods, so let me be your voice of experience: she was upset because you thought telling Richard that you were with a woman would automatically prove that you couldn’t be having an affair.”

Therese blinks. Dannie, perfectly at ease in his assessment, takes a drink of beer. Therese stares at him.

“What?” she says.

“It was a classic straight girl move, Therese. No, don’t be like that. I’m not dissing straight girls and I’m not, like, _labeling_ you or anything. I’m just saying this woman is clearly queer and you did something that made her think you are clearly straight. And she’s upset about it, because she likes you.”

Therese swallows hard, gazes into her pint as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Then, in a soft, tremulous voice, she asks, “Why would she like me?”

“Don’t even.”

“Dannie, you should see her. She’s—she’s like some fucking movie star from the 1930s!”

“Cool story, Audrey Hepburn.”

“Ugh!”

“Therese, dollface, you are simultaneously gorgeous _and_ adorable. You’re smart as fuck and you take pictures on your off time. This combination would drive any women to distraction. Like, you are total lesbian catnip. Own it.”

“I—I don’t—”

“Own it, bitch.”

Therese is silent for several moments, ruminating. Then, in a timid voice, “You really think she likes me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Nah, I think she bought you lunch to ‘thank you.’” He puts it in air quotes, and laughs. “Seriously, props to her. The woman has moves. You gotta respect it.” 

To Therese’s embarrassment, she finds tears coming to her eyes again. Is Dannie right? Does Carol like her? Because if so—

“It doesn’t matter,” Therese squeaks. “I ruined it. You said so yourself.”

“I fucking did _not_.”

“I made her think I’m just some clueless straight girl who’s not interested in her!”

“No epic romance is complete without miscommunication, separation, and pining. Now’s the point in the plot where you prove to her she’s wrong about you. It’s your ‘get the girl’ moment. Meet her at the airport. Catch her at the altar. Show up at the restaurant.”

Therese looks at him blankly. He rolls his eyes again, “ _Call her_!”

Therese blanches. “I can’t.” Dannie gives her one of his flat, unimpressed looks, but she tells him again, “I can’t, I—I’m too embarrassed. I’m too… I’d be so nervous I’d just end up word vomiting on her. I want to see her again, not scare her away.”

He considers this magnanimously, and then nods, “All right. No phone call. You’re texting her.”

Before she can stop him, he’s snatched her phone right off the table. She makes a grab at it, but he angles away. Not for the first time Therese regrets giving him her code, because a second later he’s in her contacts and bringing up Carol.

“Dannie, don’t!”

“I’m not gonna send it, all right? I’m not that extra. I’m just gonna write it for you, and if you don’t like it you can change it or toss it or whatever. Okay?” 

Therese’s hands are sweating, but after a moment she nods. He starts texting, narrating as he goes, “‘Hi, Carol. Thanks for inviting me over today. I loved your workshop and I’m sorry I had to leave early. Maybe next time you can come to my place. If I don’t see you, Happy New Year!’”

He hands her the phone. She reads the message slowly, and then gives her a skeptical look. “This is surprisingly… not embarrassing.”

He sniffs, takes a drink, says, “I can be subtle, bitch.”

“Do you really think I should send it?”

“If you want to see her again, yeah. You gotta make the first move, babe.”

Therese swallows nervously, staring at the message, thumb hovering over the Send. She could delete the message, and in a way it would be like deleting Carol—putting an end to whatever this is. Squashing out not just the possibility, but all the confusion and fluttering unease of the past few days. That would certainly be easier. Not to mention more ethical, given Richard… But the thought that she might never see Carol again—never look into those mist-gray eyes, never see that curving smile, never hear that voice with its warmth and richness and humor—

Therese breathes in, breathes out, and hits Send. 


	10. Chapter 10

Carol is morosely studying a takeout container of Pad Thai when her phone rings. It’s Abby.

“Put your Spanx on, baby, because we are going _out_!”

Carol snorts. “I don’t wear Spanx, Abby, and neither do you. As I recall your stomach is flat as a board.”

“And don’t you fucking forget it. But I’m serious, Carol. It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m single. You’re single. Rindy is with Harge and we are going to go out and get drunk and make fools of ourselves. Like grownups.”

“I’ve never liked New Years,” Carol mutters, stabbing at the noodles in the container.

“That’s because you were married to Harge for ten years. Now, you’re free. And to celebrate that freedom it is very important that you start the New Year as you mean to go on—by looking hot and having fun and hanging out with me. So let’s go. I’ll be at the bar in an hour.”

“How do you expect me to get into the city on New Year’s Eve? I’ll never find parking.”

“So get a Lyft.”

“Can you imagine the price gouging?”

“I don’t care, Carol, you’re coming. You can sleep at my place tonight if you’re that worried about it. In fact if I have my way you’ll get the place to yourself because I haven’t had sex in three weeks and it’s time.”

 _Three weeks,_ Carol nearly scoffs. _Try going eight months._

She puts down the Pad Thai and asks wearily, “All right. Which bar?”

“Well, I was thinking Cubbyhole, given my priorities, but then I remembered that I’ve had plenty of luck at The McKinley lately, so…”

“Abby, _no_.” 

“Carol—”

“I can’t go there, Abby, all right? I refuse.”

“She texted you.”

“And I haven’t responded.”

“Because you’re a bitter old hag who wants to die alone. Get over yourself. We’re going to The McKinley and if Therese is there you’re going to make up. Or make out. Whichever comes first. Plus, I need to suss her out. See if she’s worth all of this angst you’ve been nursing.”

“Abby,” Carol growls.

“See you in an hour!”

And with that singsong declaration, Abby hangs up.

Carol sits for a minute at the breakfast bar, staring balefully at her phone. Almost without meaning to, she opens her messenger app and finds the thread with Therese. She rereads the message four, five times. She’s got it memorized. At first she didn’t answer because she was angry and hurt. And then she didn’t answer because she didn’t know what to say. And then she didn’t answer because it had been two days and it felt like her chance was past. Now, it’s Thursday. Four days since she saw Therese. Four days since Therese left to go unruffle her boyfriend’s feathers. Four days since Carol chose not to answer her text.

Not that she hasn’t wanted to. God, she’s probably typed and deleted ten different messages, all ranging from dignified to thirsty versions of, _when can I see you again?_ But she hasn’t been able to send them.

Maybe Abby is right, and she’s a bitter hag—but she doesn’t think that’s it. No, in ways it would be easier to think that she is just punishing Therese, shutting her out, cutting her off. Yes, this would be easier, because in this version she doesn’t have to admit to herself what she really feels: fear. Fear of being hurt. Hurt _again_. And not by the recriminations and arrogance and dismissal of her husband, this time, but by someone who she already suspects may have far more impact on her than he ever did. Someone whose green eyes and soft smile have haunted her these past few days. Someone who she desperately wants to trust—but who has the power to wound not only her pride… but her heart. 

Trying to shove these thoughts aside, Carol drags herself out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her bedroom. She turns on the closet light and assesses her options, as haughty and unimpressed as a governess in a Victorian novel. In irritation she reminds herself, it’s not as if she’ll even get to _talk_ to Therese. She’ll be working. Busy. This whole thing is so…

A text comes through. From Abby.

_/ You’re coming. /_

Defeated, Carol starts pawing through her clothes.

<><><>

A $200 Lyft ride later, and Carol stands on the street in front of The McKinley. She can already see that it’s packed. The streets are busy, too. It’s 10 o’clock and the revelries are in full swing. Why the fuck did she agree to do this?

Inside, she avoids looking toward the bar itself, and instead scans the crowds. Remarkably, she sees Abby at once. Somehow her friend has managed to commandeer a standing table, and there are three other women with her, none of whom Carol recognizes. Steeling herself, Carol joins them, and Abby shouts with joy at the sight of her, grabbing her into a hug and then introducing her to her new friends. Carol doesn’t catch any of their names, but she does gather that they work in the New York offices of the Human Rights Campaign, which Carol supposes is kind of sexy. Two are lawyers. One is an accountant.

Carol’s eyes flick toward the bar. It’s no use. The crowd is so thick, she can’t see any of the bartenders.

“And what do you do, Carol?” one of the lawyers ask.

Carol hesitates, and Abby swoops in, “She’s a furniture restorer.”

All their eyes widen in surprise. “Really?” the accountant asks.

“Uh… yes.”

“That’s so cool!” says one of the lawyers, a redhead.

“It _is_ so cool,” Abby agrees, her lips quirked in a devious smile. “Carol is _very_ cool. And very talented. And you should see what all that furniture restoring has done for her biceps.”

Carol gives her a murderous look. The three women laugh, and then Abby is leading them all in conversation, so Carol has no choice but to stop glowering. The women are interesting, certainly—their work is interesting. They’re funny and good-looking. Within ten minutes the conversation has spanned politics, a recent show at the MOMA, and an off-Broadway production of _The Children’s Hour_. Carol realizes in a flood of regret that she has been a complete hermit this past year. No wonder Abby keeps harassing her to get out. The blonde lawyer, who Carol has finally figured out is named Jess, tells her about a new Brazilian restaurant in Queens that is apparently to die for, that she _has_ to try, and Carol finds herself thinking, _Yes, I should go to that restaurant. I should go to museums and plays. I should start living my life, now that Harge is gone._

And as for _Jess_ … it’s quickly apparent from her coquettish glances that she wouldn’t mind checking out that Brazilian restaurant again… together. In the face of her unambiguous appreciation, Carol takes a risk—holds her stare. Jess stares back and possibility sparks between them. She’s a beautiful woman, curvy and long-legged and wearing a very flattering little black dress that shows off muscular calves. The other two women have a different vibe—not a ‘couple’ vibe, but a friends-with-benefits vibe, and they’ve clearly got their eye on Abby. But Jess is up for grabs. And Carol hasn’t had sex in—

“Excuse me.”

Carol looks in surprise to find that one of their regular servers, Jack, is standing next to them. He smiles brightly, and sets a drink down on the table in front of her. Carol’s eyes widen. It’s a martini.

“I didn’t order this,” she says.

“It’s on the house,” Jack replies. “Compliments of our bartender, Therese.”

Carol’s eyes widen. Abby hoots with glee.

“Therese?” asks the redheaded lawyer. “Is that the hottie with the green eyes?”

Jack looks suddenly flustered, but the accountant spares him by exclaiming, “I hit on her an hour ago and got _nothing_!”

“I didn’t think she looked old enough to _be_ a bartender,” says Jess.

“Looks like she’s old enough to have game,” Abby replies. “Oh, Jack?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Does Therese get a break?”

“Abby—” Carol tries.

“She must, right?”

“Yes, she gets a break. I’m not sure exactly when—” 

“Tell her to come join us, for her break,” says Abby.

“I’ll—yes.” Jack looks slightly perplexed by whatever is going on. “I’ll tell her.”

He turns to go, but something flares in Carol. Suddenly, she lifts her drink, and says, “Jack?”

He faces her again.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

Carol swallows, holding out the martini. He looks even more confused, and across the table she can feel Abby glaring daggers at her.

“Will you take this back, please? And will you… tell Therese that…” She swallows, fights her instincts, marshals her courage. “Tell her that I’d prefer an old-fashioned?”

Still confused, Jack accepts the drink. “Of course, Ma’am,” he says. “One old-fashioned, coming up.”

And he’s gone. Carol faces her party again, and finds all four women looking at her. Jess seems suspicious. The redhead and the accountant, intrigued. Abby cocks an eyebrow at her, and it’s all far too much attention to have on her when she is currently trying to fight off a wave of panic. What is she doing? What is Therese doing? What are they _doing_?

“Sorry, everyone,” she says, in her most performatively at ease voice. “What were we talking about?”

“Do you know her from somewhere? The bartender?” asks the redhead.

Carol clears her throat. “Yes. She’s a friend of mine.”

“She’s cute as fuck,” says the accountant, grinning. “Are you two dating, or—?”

“No,” says Carol quickly. “No, she’s just a friend.”

Abby scoffs, rolls her eyes. The redhead says, “Seems like she wants to be more than friends.”

Before Carol can deflect, Jess remarks in a cool voice, “Personally, I try not to fuck around with bartenders.”

Startled, Carol looks at her in a surge of anger. “What the fuck is wrong with being a bartender?” she snaps.

An awkward silence hits the table, Jess clearly taken aback, eyebrows hiking skyward. For a moment no one says anything, and then Jess clears her throat.

“Well,” she says, looking expectantly at her friends. “I’m hiding a joint in this dress, and it’s not doing anyone any good in there. Let’s hit the alley, yeah?” She turns her haughty stare back on Carol for a moment, then looks at Abby. “You’re welcome to come.”

Abby looks like she’s caught between annoyance and hilarity. She clears her throat and answers, “You ladies go on.”

With that, the HRC trio slips away. Carol wishes now that she had hung on to that martini, because she’s dying for a drink. She braces her elbows on the table, leaning forward and snatching Abby’s whiskey for a swallow.

Abby says, “You know you probably just cost me a threesome.”

“Go after them,” Carol retorts. “Maybe you can level up to an orgy.” 

Their eyes meet, and Abby gives a pensive frown. “That seems like way too much work,” she says at last.

Carol can’t help snorting with laughter. She offers Abby a chastened grin, “I’m sorry. I was rude.”

“She was rude!” Abby defers. “You can’t talk about bartenders like that. It’s bad karma.”

“I know you wanted to have a good time tonight.” 

Abby gives her a fond look, reaching over to squeeze her hand—and snatch back her drink. “I’m with you, aren’t I?” she asks. “New Year’s resolution achieved.”

“There’ve got to be other women in this bar who would succumb to your charms,” Carol says. “I’ll wingman you.”

“You’re a terrible wingman,” Abby grouses. “You steal all my thunder. That face of yours is a liability.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“You are the definition of statuesque.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

And then, suddenly, someone has placed a tumbler in front of her. Within, the amber liquid is garnished with orange peel and a cocktail cherry and Carol goes still as a statue. What feels like eons later, she finds the courage to look up at the person standing beside her.

“Hello,” says Therese Belivet.

Carol swallows the sudden dryness in her throat. “Hello.”

Therese’s eyes, those vibrant green eyes, hold her in thrall, calm and serious and assessing as the first time they met. She’s wearing the shirt and tie again, her hair tied back, her lips dark. For the first time ever, Carol notices a little scar above her eye, not an inch long, half obscured by her dark eyebrow. _Where did it come from?_ Carol wonders. _Where did_ you _come from?_

“So,” Abby’s voice breaks through their staring. “You’re Therese.”

Slowly, as if unsticking herself from quicksand, Therese pulls her eyes away from Carol and looks at Abby. Her smile is a little nervous, but determined. “Yes, hello. You must be Abby.”

Abby’s brows lift, impressed. “I am indeed. Nice of you to drop by. And to bring presents.”

Therese smiles, polite but shy. Carol watches her in fascinated silence, until those green eyes are on her again. Therese glances down at the drink. She asks, “Are you going to tell me if that’s any good?”

“I never knew you to drink an old-fashioned,” says Abby.

Carol clears her throat, tries to snap herself out of this bizarre fog that has descended on her. She tells Abby, “It’s been awhile. Let’s see.”

She picks up the drink, taking a sip. The flavors are instantly familiar, yet somehow completely new, and completely delicious. She drinks again. Perhaps she never had a good old-fashioned before. This drink is smooth and rich, sweet and silky, with herbal and bitter undertones that slide across Carol’s tongue, down her throat, warming her belly. Or perhaps that warmth is just Therese, watching her drink.

Finally, with a coolness she doesn’t feel, Carol says, “That’s a very good old-fashioned.”

Therese beams with pleasure.

Abby asks, “Can I try?”

Carol sips the drink again, tells her drolly, “Get your own.”

At that, Therese frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have brought you one as well.”

“What you should have done is brought one for yourself,” Abby replies, finishing off the rest of her whiskey. “I thought you were going to take your break with us?”

Therese glances between Abby and Carol. Carol watches her over the rim of the drink, curious. Therese says, “I know, Jack told me. Unfortunately I’m not allowed to take my breaks on the floor. It’s a bar policy.”

Looking put out, Abby says, “Well, that sucks. Here I was hoping to learn all about you. And I know Carol was hoping to hang out with you tonight.” 

Carol throws her a scathing glance. Therese’s cheeks pink, and it is so fucking adorable that Carol thinks she may be about to lose her mind. Then Therese is looking at her again, and there’s no avoiding the nervousness in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay. I do have a break, in about an hour. I didn’t know if you would still be here—”

“She will be,” Abby interjects.

This time Carol kicks her under the table. Abby’s momentary distraction gives the chance to look at Therese again, to hold her stare, to think of all the reasons why she should demur—

“Text me,” she says instead, her voice calm and forcedly indifferent. “I’ll come meet you.”

Therese’s eyes shine; her face softens, the embarrassment and uncertainty melting into hope.

“All right,” she says, so quiet that Carol can barely hear her over the din of the bar.

“It was nice to meet you, Therese,” chimes Abby.

Therese smiles shyly. “You, too.” Then, with a glance at her empty glass. “I’ll have Jack bring you another whiskey. On the house.”

Then, with one last look at Carol, heavy and heavenly, she slips away. Carol watches her go, watches her disappear into the crowd, and wishes she could follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abby and Dannie should fight crime together.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to wait until after the inauguration to post this. Things are heating up.

Therese can’t remember the last time she was this nervous. Even when she took the train out to Carol’s house, she wasn’t this nervous. Even when she sat across from her at Scotty’s and learned her name for the first time, she wasn’t this nervous. But now, clutching the Styrofoam container for her shift meal in one hand, and her phone in the other, she almost doesn’t breathe as she waits for Carol’s response to her text:

_/ Break just started. Meet me behind the bar? /_

She agonized over sending this for the last half hour. Did it sound shady? Weird? Would Carol come? Carol had been so… aloof at the table, those gray eyes assessing Therese but offering no warmth. Abby’s interjections hinted at something different, but Carol was a closed book. And since Carol never responded to her last text, perhaps she won’t respond to this one either. Maybe she’s already left the bar. Therese has had to wait ages for her break, after all, and now it’s already 11:40…

Steeling herself, Therese goes out the back door onto the makeshift patio space behind the bar. There’s a table and a heating lamp that the owner set up so staff could take smoke breaks without freezing their asses off. A true kindness. And Jack left a pack of cigarettes out and told her to help herself. Generally Therese only smokes with other people, but anxious as she is right now, she might just chain smoke the whole pack.

She’s just set her things down on the table when someone clears their throat behind her. She whirls around, feeling the sharp panic she always does when she realizes someone is behind her—

But it’s Carol. Carol is here.

For a moment all she can do is stare at her. In the bar, she barely had time to take Carol in, overwhelmed by the press of bodies around them. Now, in this quiet and solitude, she’s acutely conscious of the woman’s appearance. Carol wears her camel coat, but the buttons are open, revealing a russet-colored cowl dress that falls just above her knees. The neckline is… distracting. It exposes the top of her chest and her throat, accentuated by a double layer gold necklace. Her neck is long, and fair, and beautiful, and Therese is momentarily—

“What?” Carol asks. She looks just slightly cautious, almost defensive.

“Nothing,” Therese says quickly. “I’m glad you were still here! Do you want to come sit down? I’ve got half an hour.”

Carol doesn’t answer at first, but she does walk over to the table and, a moment after Therese, sit. She looks around at the makeshift space, remarking, “I didn’t even know this was back here.”

“It’s for staff,” Therese explains.

Carol gives her a thoughtful onceover. “But it’s all right that I’m here?”

Therese smiles slowly, unable to conceal her pleasure—frankly, her relief—at being with Carol again. “Yes,” she says. “It’s all right that you’re here.” They look at each other for a long moment, Carol’s pale eyes deep, assessing. Suddenly intimidated, Therese focuses on opening up the Styrofoam container. “Are you hungry?”

Inside, there’s a club sandwich, cut into four pieces, and a heaping of fries on the side.

“I can’t eat your dinner,” Carol scoffs.

“Oh, no!” Therese insists. “I usually just ask for a half. I thought you might like some. Here.”

She pushes the container toward Carol, so that it is exactly between them. After a moment, Carol finally grabs one of the squares of sandwich, but not before glancing at the pack of cigarettes on the table. She drawls, “To be honest I’m more tempted by those.”

Therese grins. “Are you trying to quit?”

“‘Trying’ being the operative word. I’ve cut back, at least.”

“Well, it is New Year’s. At the risk of being a bad influence, I don’t mind having one with you, after we eat.”

Then, for the first time, Carol smiles. It’s small, rueful, but so lovely, and all of her is so lovely, and Therese doesn’t know how it’s possible to miss someone so much who she’s only just met, but she has. Missed her.

Carol takes a bite of the sandwich, and suddenly her coolness disappears with a widening of the eyes, with a low groan that sends heat flooding through Therese’s body—

“Jesus,” Carol says, “This tastes amazing.”

Therese swallows against the dryness in her throat. She takes a quick bite of her own sandwich and grins. She chews and swallows and says, “Our chef calls it his Thanksgiving Dinner Club. He uses oven-roasted turkey instead of the deli kind. And he makes this cranberry-based mayonnaise. And the sandwich bread is homemade brioche. It’s good, isn’t it? I’ve asked for it like four times since I started working here.”

_Why the fuck are you talking so much about a sandwich?_

But Carol doesn’t seem put off. Instead, she groans around another mouthful, “It’s divine.”

This, talking with her mouth full, is the least elegant thing that Carol has ever done. Therese is instantly charmed. She thinks with a flare of hope, _maybe it will all be all right? Maybe we can pick up where we left off? Maybe everything that went wrong can be forgotten?_

They eat in silence for a few more bites; Carol eats like she’s starving, and Therese remembers their first date, when Carol surmised that she hadn’t eaten yet that day. Therese likes to think that asking for a full sandwich instead of a half was born of her own intuition. She is so irrationally delighted to be offering food that Carol likes, and wonders if that’s foolish. But, in the end, she doesn’t care. Instead, she eats, picking at the fries and happy when Carol does, too. It gives her the courage to buck up and ask—

“How has your week been?”

Carol, halfway through the last bite of her sandwich quarter, looks at her quickly. Her eyes flit away a moment later. She says, “Oh… busy, actually.”

Therese nods, hoping she’ll say more, but instead they both reach for another quarter of sandwich. A few more bites. Therese ventures, “Did you finish the dining chairs?”

To her immense relief, Carol smiles again, and it’s not cool, or aloof, but pleased. “Yes,” she says, and her eyes are shining. “I’m actually really happy with how they turned out. I’m not much of a seamstress but the cushions look brand new. I’ve already sent photos to the owner and she’s ecstatic.”

“Can you show me?” asks Therese. Carol pauses, and she adds, “The pictures, I mean.”

Carol places down her sandwich without answering—but then pulls out her phone, opening it up. She starts to pass the phone across the table to Therese, but at the last moment she stops. With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, she scoots her chair around so that they are side by side. Therese has to fight very hard not to vibrate with happiness. Carol shows her the photographs. The chairs do indeed look brand new, all the wear and damage that she pointed out to Therese in her workshop is beautifully repaired. The seat back of the first chair, which used to have a fracture in the lattice, looks like nothing ever happened to it. She’s talented, and Therese is proud of her.

“They look beautiful!” she says.

Carol demurs, putting her phone away. But there’s a touch of pink in her cheeks. “I imagine you would have taken much nicer pictures. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that, by the way. I still expect to see your photography some time.”

Therese could lift right out of her chair. Carol still wants to see her photographs. Carol still wants to see _her_. This—whatever it is—isn’t over.

“Are the owners coming to pick them up?” Therese asks.

“No, actually, I did a number of pieces for them. An end table and a dresser. I’m driving it all out to them tomorrow afternoon. They live outside Buffalo.”

Therese frowns. “That’s a long drive.”

“Yes, but I don’t mind. Rindy is with Harge through the end of the weekend, and that house feels so empty without her. It’s just as well I travel for a couple of days. I might stay away three nights, to be honest—take the scenic route. See the country. Western New York is a bit barren in winter but even so.”

Therese says nothing. Three nights away is nothing—it’s less time than has passed since she went to Carol’s house. And yet for some reason, the prospect of her going away, being out of town, is… distressing.

She says, “That sounds lovely,” and reaches for her sandwich again.

She keeps her eyes on the table, eating with concentration, and yet she is soon aware that Carol is watching her. Looking for further distraction, she reaches into her bag, pulling out a bottle of water. She uncaps it and drinks thirstily, but with her head tipped back there’s no way to pretend she doesn’t see Carol’s eyes on her. And Carol’s eyes _are_ on her—they’re on her face, and then her hand holding the bottle, and then her neck, swallowing…

Therese asks, “Are you thirsty?”

Carol blinks. She starts to say no, but Therese holds out the bottle. “Here.”

With a little huff that Therese can’t interpret, Carol takes the bottle, and drinks. When she hands it back to Therese, their fingers touch—just as they did when Therese handed her her gloves at the holiday market. And, just as then, Therese feels a tingling at the point of contact.

Their eyes meet. Before she can stop herself, Therese says, “I’m sorry about… the way I left, on Sunday. I’m sorry if it was awkward.”

But Carol, breaking eye contact, makes a sharp, dismissive gesture. “It’s nothing, Dearest.”

The aloofness is back. The indifference is back. Feeling stung, Therese is very tempted to say, _‘But I didn’t_ have _to leave, did I? I could have stayed hours longer. You_ made _me leave.’_

Eyes still averted, Carol says in a brisk tone, “I hope you sorted things out with Richard?”

 _Richard_ , thinks Therese miserably. “Oh, I… yes.”

“That’s good,” Carol nods. “When you’re young, you know, these little spats are rather common. Nothing to worry about.”

Therese finds this incredibly condescending, and retorts, “Are you saying that thirty-five-year-olds don’t get into spats with their boyfriends? Or husbands?” Carol falters, and Therese realizes too late how unkind this was—this gesture at a divorce that she knows nothing about. And yet she feels that Carol has been unkind, too, and so she asks in a fit of daring, “Is that why you never responded to my text? Because of Richard?” 

Carol sighs, “I’m sorry about that. I got so busy and then I… well, and I figured you must be busy, too. Did school start up for you this week?”

Therese grinds her jaw at the deflection, especially since she has already told Carol— “No. Next week.”

“Will it be a busy term?”

With a sigh, Therese looks down at the table. What right has she got to feel this way? Carol doesn’t owe her anything. They hardly know each other. And yet…

“Yes,” she says flatly. “It always is.”

There’s a momentary silence, and when she looks up she’s surprised to find Carol watching her again—not in that cold or distant way, but with a sudden warmth and—God, is that tenderness? In her eyes? Is that the word for the gentle way Carol looks at her? All Therese knows is that the sight of it has her heart hammering.

Carol’s voice is just as gentle. “You must be so exhausted,” she says.

Something about the words, about the tone, about the way Carol is looking at her, makes Therese suddenly terrified that she is going to cry. She had no idea until now how badly she needs this—this kindness, from Carol. This interest. This regard. She feels starved for it, and pathetic in her starvation, and maybe that’s why she is the one who deflects this time, chuckling shortly and waving a hand—

“Oh, it’s fine. I—it’s because I work full time, you know, and—that’s my choice. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got it down to a science. The—the balancing of it all. I’m fine.”

 _But you’re not fine are you?_ Therese thinks, aware that Carol has not stopped looking at her. _You_ are _exhausted. And you’re lonely. And you don’t understand Richard and he doesn’t understand you, and the only time in the past two weeks when you have felt truly happy… has been when you’re with Carol._

Carol, who says now, “So I guess that means you don’t get time to party on New Year’s Eve?”

It’s said wryly. Her humor punctures the tension, and Therese looks up again at her, grinning. “No,” she laughs. “No, I’m not much for partying, anyway. Unlike you. You clearly came to party.”

Carol throws back her head, her laughter rich and intoxicating and her eyes bright as stars when she looks at Therese, “Jesus, _no_ ,” she says. “Abby _made_ me come out.”

“Oh, she _made_ you, did she?” Therese teases. “And I suppose I _made_ you drink that old-fashioned, didn’t I?”

Carol eyes are still twinkling. Her smile becomes smaller, almost sly. Almost, provocative. She says in a low drawl, “I suppose I did have my own reasons… for coming tonight.”

 _She means you!_ Therese thinks, her heart galloping, her stomach in knots. _Right? She must mean you!_

Therese says quietly, “I’m glad.”

And then they are just looking at each other. Looking at each other for so long that Therese thinks she may shake out of her skin.

Until suddenly, Carol seems to flinch. She looks away. She asks, “Where is Richard tonight?”

 _God_ damn _it._

“Oh,” Therese flounders. “I think he’s at some other party. To be honest I haven’t talked to him much the past couple of days. We’ve both been really busy.”

_And I’ve been avoiding him._

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Carol.

There’s something slightly wooden in her voice. She suddenly reaches for the pack of cigarettes. She draws one out and Therese watches her light it, and thinks that no one in the world has ever looked so good lighting a cigarette, or taking that first, slow drag.

“Give me one,” Therese says.

Carol hesitates, then concedes, holding out the pack. She says dryly, “I feel like I’m corrupting you.”

Therese draws one out, but before she can pick up the lighter, Carol has it in hand—is leaning forward, is lighting the tip. For a moment, their heads are bent together, and Therese catches the warm, spicy smell of her. They sit back.

“Corrupting me?” Therese asks.

“Young people shouldn’t smoke,” says Carol archly. “The younger you start the harder it is to quit.”

Therese says, “You seem very preoccupied by how old I am.”

Carol takes a drag. She makes a slightly exasperated, slightly amused little huffing sound. “Do I? Well, I’ll be honest, I don’t have many friends your age.” She pauses, considers, and adds, “I don’t have many friends at all, actually. Not real ones. There’s Abby, of course, and a couple of women from Harge’s circles that I don’t mind. But generally speaking I… I guess I’m not a very social animal.”

Carol is once again avoiding looking at her, and there’s something borderline anxious in her face—and in the way she smokes.

Therese replies, “I’m not either, actually.”

A quick look from Carol. A long silence between them. And then, a confession: “Harge and I never spent New Years together. He always had business functions, parties—people to entertain. Sometimes I was there, with him, but… we weren’t really together. Most times, I found a way to stay home—especially after Rindy was born. I preferred that. When you’re with someone you don’t love, parties and holidays carry a special… well, loneliness, I guess.”

Therese thinks of Christmas at Richard’s, of how eager she was to get away. And this unexpected piece of news—that Carol did not love Harge, maybe never loved him? It fills her with sadness and curiosity, and, guiltily, hope.

She says, “I always spend New Year’s alone… at work. In crowds. Nobody sees a bartender on a busy night. It’s a kind of invisibility.”

Carol considers this. She pulls in a drag, and blows it out, never breaking eye contact. She asks, “And do you find it lonely, too?”

Therese shrugs, feigning indifference. “Well… it’s better than spending the holiday with someone you don’t love, isn’t it?”

A sad smile from Carol. “Yes, I suppose it is. But rather than the lesser of two evils, I suppose it would be nice to actually… enjoy New Year’s.”

Therese takes a drag. Blows it out. Her impulses fight like gladiators, pushing her forward and pulling her back, until in a surge she beats down caution, and says, “I’m enjoying this. Being with you… doesn’t feel lonely.”

Carol swallows. Carol’s eyes blaze. Therese wonders with a surge of panic if Carol is angry at her—if that is what the intense, unblinking stare means. And Therese wants to ask her, wants to ask if she’s done something wrong, when suddenly—

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

The sound of the shouting reaches them all the way behind the bar. Crowds of revelers united in this age old tradition.

“Seven! Six! Five!”

Therese looks at Carol. Carol looks at her. They don’t smoke. They don’t speak.

“Four! Three! Two! One!”

And then, as thunderous as Therese’s beating heart:

“Happy New Year!”

From every direction there seem to pour the sounds of celebration—cars honking their horns; people shouting; noisemakers and music and, in the far distance, the fireworks erupting in Central Park. Everywhere, people are laughing and singing and drinking and kissing the ones they love, the ones they don’t love, the ones they’ve just met—and as Therese stares into those bewitching gray eyes, she knows that she has never wanted anything more, in her entire life, than to kiss Carol Ross.

And then Carol says, “I suppose you wish Richard was here.”

The words hit Therese like a sledgehammer. There is nothing Carol could have possibly said to hurt her more, to confuse her more, to leave her more suddenly disappointed and—humiliated. By some miracle she manages to control her facial expression, to take another drag of her cigarette and then stub it out in the tray.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” she says.

Carol’s voice is hesitant, regretful. “Therese…” she murmurs.

It’s barely audible over the continuing din of midnight celebrations. Therese pretends she doesn’t hear. She stands up, closing the Styrofoam container and its remnants of food. She sticks the water bottle in her bag and slings it over her shoulder and does it all without looking at Carol. Carol, who is standing up, too.

“I’ll talk to you later,” says Therese.

And Carol reaches for her arm and says, “Wait—”

And Therese, in a sudden fury of emotion, looks up into her face and demands angrily, “Why do you keep asking about Richard!?”

She expects Carol to deflect again, to play it off. She’s unprepared for how Carol just stares at her. Not blinking. Not denying it. But her silence is unbearable.

“Why?” Therese says. “You keep bringing him up. You keep asking about him. Why do you—”

“To remind myself.”

Carol’s answer is calm, but hard. Her eyes are flinty. Therese blinks in startlement and confusion. They are standing maybe a foot apart, and looking up into her face, her gorgeous face with its intense seriousness, has adrenaline running through her.

“To remind yourself of what?” she asks, still angry.

Carol’s jaw clenches. She runs an anxious hand across her abdomen; uses the other to adjust the collar of her dress.

“Tell me!” Therese snaps.

“That you have one—”

“What?”

“That you have a boyfriend,” Carol snaps right back at her. Therese stares. Carol says sharply, “I keep bringing him up to remind myself… that you have a boyfriend, Therese. That you are not single. That you are not _available_. Do you understand? Do you _get it_?”

Therese can hardly breathe, the low vibration of Carol’s voice rattling through her. Carol looks at her, and there’s a dare in her look, a challenge, and Therese is startled, and confused by her own feelings, and nervous and she _wants wants wants—_

“Carol—”

“Hey, Therese!”

The sound of the voice is like a gunshot. She jumps. Carol steps back from her. How had she not realized how close Carol was standing to her? She looks toward the back door of the bar, and finds Jack standing there, looking at her curiously.

She swallows. Answers, “Yeah?”

He pauses, looking between her and Carol. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Therese answers immediately. “Everything’s fine.”

“Okay… um… Tommy says your break is up.”

Therese looks sharply down at her watch, startled to realize she’s five minutes past her allotted half hour. She curses under her breath, looking up at Carol. Their eyes lock. Carol looks frozen.

“I—” Therese stumbles. “I—have to go back—”

“Fine,” says Carol, averting her eyes. She’s still got the cigarette in her hand but she drops it and grinds it out under one impressive heel. Her cheeks are flaming. She mutters, “Me, too.”

And before Therese can say another word, she’s walking off. Walking away. Hands in her pockets and shoulders erect. It’s all Therese can do not to shout at her to come back. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ya'all were in such a state after that last chapter that I've decided to be nice and update early.

Carol storms back into the bar like a hurricane, looking for Abby. The crowds are still raucously celebrating the midnight ball drop, and there’s confetti on everything. Someone nearby blows hard into a kazoo, and Carol grimaces. She scans the bar, finding that her and Abby’s table has been taken over by some other group. There’s no sign of Abby. She snatches her phone out of her purse, meaning to call her, and there it is—a text message. She must have been too preoccupied with Therese to notice it. It’s from Abby. 

_/ Hey. Ran into the HRC girls again. Looks like you didn’t burn all my good will. Heading out with them. You can use my apartment tonight. To sleep. Or… whatever_ 😉 _/_

Ordinarily this text would have pulled an amused laugh from her. This time, she feels rage flood through her. Not at Abby. Not even at Therese. At herself. At her own complete… and utter… _foolishness_.

What the hell did she think would happen? What the hell did she think Therese would do? Take her in her arms? Tell her that she wanted her, too? No, because when faced with the natural next step of their obvious attraction, Therese did what most girls with boyfriends do—retreat. And why shouldn’t she? She has history with Richard. Love, probably. Why give all of that up for a woman she’s just met? A bit of attraction was one thing. But Carol had overplayed her hand. Now Therese is gone. And it’s Carol’s own damn fault.

She leaves the restaurant again, wishing she had stolen that pack of cigarettes off the table. Right now she’s ready to smoke her own weight. She walks out onto the street, where the revelers are still singing and dancing. Where the sound of fireworks out in Central Park continues. She stands on the curb, searching for a cab. But of course everything is chaos. Three, four taxis pass by without stopping for her raised hand. She tries Uber, but the fares and the wait times are horrifying, and she’s too angry to give in. Fuck it. Abby’s apartment isn’t more than forty minutes away on foot. She’ll walk.

It’s just as she starts marching down the road, vibrating with tension and anger and a deep, stomach-clenching disappointment, that her phone rings. Probably Abby checking on her. She doesn’t want to ruin her night so she lets it go to voicemail. But it starts ringing again immediately afterwards. Cursing through her teeth Carol snatches it out of her pocket and brings it to her ear without even looking at the ID.

“Yeah?” she demands.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Followed by—

“Hello?”

Carol stops still on the sidewalk. She would recognize that voice anywhere.

“Carol?” Therese asks, sounding fragile, sounding… desperate.

 _Hang up_ , Carol thinks.

But instead—

“Therese?”

“Yes, I—” even in the surrounding noise, Carol _hears_ the sound of her swallowing. “I—where did you go?”

_What the fuck…?_

“I’m—I’m leaving. What are you—aren’t you back at the bar?”

“Yes, but—I told—I told Tommy that I was—that I was sick. Where are you?”

Carol turns slowly, looking back toward the bar. She’s only gotten about twenty or thirty feet down the sidewalk. As she watches, the crowd parts, and Therese appears. Standing on the curb, phone to her ear, looking left and right. Carol is frozen, watching her, not speaking.

“Carol?” Therese repeats.

Therese is still wearing her coat; she has her messenger bag. When Therese turns and looks in her direction, going still, they are staring right at each other. For a moment, neither of them speaks, or moves. Then, Therese is walking toward her.

Carol has an irrational impulse to turn and run, but her feet are rooted, her heart hammering. Therese is walking toward her. Practically jogging. She gets closer and closer and the closer she gets the clearer Carol can see her face, and her face is pale, and full of anxiety, but her eyes when she gets within ten feet—her eyes flame.

She finally stops at three feet. She’s breathing hard, looking into Carol’s face, the phone still held to her ear. Carol’s is still held to hers. They realize it at the same moment and hang up, looking away from each other, awkward.

Therese speaks first.

“Where are you going?”

Carol swallows, daring to look at her. Finally she admits, “Abby hooked up with someone. Some _ones_ , actually. She said I could stay at her place tonight. I do that sometimes, when it’s late. It’s too crazy to try to get back to Jersey right now. I was trying to find a cab, but everything is—so I just—thought I’d walk.”

_Stop rambling!_

She frowns at Therese. “You—you left your shift?”

Therese nods sharply. “Yes,” she says, looking straight at Carol. “I didn’t think we were done talking.”

“But won’t you get in trouble?”

To her surprise, the young woman gives an indifferent shrug. _Great_ , Carol thinks. _She’s gonna get herself fired over you._

They stare at each other. Seconds pass. Then, suddenly, Therese steps out to the curb, holding her hand aloft for an incoming cab. Carol is sure it will go right past them. But, to her shock—it pulls over.

The driver lowers the window, calling out, “Where to, hon?”

Therese looks at Carol. There’s steel and determination in her voice. “Where to?”

<><><>

They’re silent in the car.

The driver is listening to a hip hop station and the low base notes rumble through Carol’s body, almost as percussive as her own beating heart. Next to her, Therese stares straight ahead. Her hands are clasped in her lap. Carol can sense her nervousness, and thinks again that this is an incredibly bad idea. Carol taps her foot nervously, looking out the window at the busy streets. Her own fingers start pulling at loose threads in the seat upholstery.

Suddenly, Therese’s hand covers hers, stilling her movements. Carol turns, expecting her to be staring ahead as before—but no. The beautiful girl is looking directly at her. There’s a small smile on her face.

“Don’t damage the driver’s car,” she reproves, in a voice so low Carol is shocked she can hear it.

Together, they look at Therese’s hand on top of hers, and Carol—she can’t help herself. She moves her pinkie finger, hooking it over Therese’s. Therese turns her hand over slowly, and then their fingers are tangling together. It’s a sensation more delicious, more erotic, than Carol has experienced in—possibly years? It makes her feel flushed and shivery and desperate. Therese’s palm presses into her palm, and Carol thinks of their bodies pressing together. Wants their bodies to press together. Wants to feel the whole of Therese, skin to skin.

They both look out their separate windows, as if the sensation is too much to heap eye contact on top of it. But they don’t stop holding hands. Even in the glacial traffic, it’s less than twenty minutes before the taxi driver pulls up outside Abby’s building. Carol pays him before Therese can beat her to it, and they get out together, Therese looking up at the stately building with wide eyes.

“Hi, Chuck,” Carol says to the doorman as they approach.

“Crashing at Ms. Gerhard’s, Ms. Ross?” Chuck asks with a smile.

“Yes, thank you. This is my friend, Therese Belivet.”

“Good evening, Ms. Belivet,” says Chuck. “Happy New Year!”

Therese, looking shy, says, “Hello.”

They walk into the palatial foyer, heading for the elevators. Once they’re inside, once the doors have closed and the car is flying up toward the ninth floor, Therese looks at her cautiously. She asks, “What does Abby do, exactly?”

Despite the tension thrumming between them, Carol finds it in herself to laugh. “She’s in publishing, actually. Pretty high up the chain at Random House.”

Therese asks, “She’s all right… with me being here?”

Carol is reminded of her own, similar question at _The McKinley_ , when she joined Therese at the staff table behind the bar. Therese had answered her with such a gentle smile on her face. Carol returns that kindness. She smiles at Therese, and into her smile she feeds all the helpless tenderness and longing that she feels.

“Yes. It’s all right.”

The elevator reaches its destination. Carol leads her down the hall to Abby’s apartment, heart hammering, fingers almost shaking as she gets out her key and lets them in. The kitchen light is on, but it’s dark otherwise. Carol switches on the hall light and lets Therese walk in ahead of her.

“Can I take your coat?” she asks.

Therese hesitates, and in her nervousness Carol can’t help but feel unnerved by it. But then Therese seems to recover. She takes off her messenger bag and pulls off her coat, handing both to Carol, who gratefully hangs them in the closet. She hangs her own coat, too.

Now, standing before each other again, they are momentarily frozen. Therese’s eyes are so wide, and though she looks a little frightened and pale, there is still that sharp determination in her eyes. But what, exactly, is she determined to do? Carol feels unmoored. Incapable of making language, or decisions—good ones, anyway. All she can focus on is the sight of that tie, cinched too tight around Therese’s delicate throat.

When in doubt, fall back on your training.

“Can I get you a drink?” Carol asks, in her ‘consummate host’ voice. “Would you like to sit down? The living room is just through there.”

But Therese doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just looks at her. Carol swallows, eyes stinging, certain now that Therese is regretting coming here. 

“Do you want to leave?” she asks softly.

Therese blinks, startled. “What? No.”

Carol blinks right back, “Oh, I—”

“Tell me what you meant… about me having a boyfriend.”

At those words, Carol’s emotions whip from anxiety to irritation. She’s already given quite enough away tonight. Therese can’t expect her to just keep… humiliating herself.

She walks past Therese toward the living room, muttering as she goes, “You know what I meant.”

Therese follows her, answers her, “You meant that you’re interested in me. Romantically. Is that right?”

Startled, Carol looks back at her. The living room is dark, only half-lit by the kitchen. Therese is watching her closely. Almost… suspiciously—and it irks her.

She scoffs, “What else would I have meant?”

Therese shrugs. She crosses her arms protectively. “I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t mean it at all. Maybe you’d had too much to drink.”

“I’m not _drunk_ , Therese. Jesus!” Carol exclaims.

“I just can’t understand it,” Therese retorts, her eyes large and watchful. “I can’t understand what someone like you… would want with someone like… me.”

Those words slip through all of Carol’s exasperation. Now she is confused, disbelieving. She looks at Therese and realizes in some shock that the girl is trembling. That her eyes are damp.

“Are you serious?” Carol asks.

Therese just looks at her. Carol would give anything in this moment to know what she’s thinking, what she’s really thinking, what could possibly lead her to doubt any person’s interest in her, desire for her.

“Have you seen yourself?”

She means it to be humorous, to lighten the mood, but Therese’s answering grimace makes her realize it was the wrong move.

Therese says, “I… I know that I’m pretty. I know that. And plenty of people proposition me after a night at the bar. But you… you’re not like that. I can tell you’re not like that. I didn’t think you were, anyway. So I’m just… trying to understand.” 

Carol feels suddenly sick, suddenly horrified. But not at Therese, or even at herself. No, what horrifies her is that someone, somewhere, has made Therese believe that she is nothing but a mark—a notch on the bedpost. A girl to be seduced, and discarded. If Carol could find that person—those people—who have made her feel this way about herself, she would break their legs. And she’s got the tools for that. 

Cautiously, Carol steps toward her. To her relief, Therese does not step back, but she does eye her in an uncertain way that makes Carol ache.

“I just—” Therese swallows. “I just don’t want us to misunderstand each other, all right? If this is going to happen then… I want to know what it means.”

The broken pieces of Carol’s heart break again. Is _this_ what Therese is trying to do? Steel herself for a one-time fuck? 

“Therese,” Carol says softly, seriously, demanding the girl’s absolute attention. “I would _never_ use you like that. And I would never let you _allow_ yourself to be used like that.”

At that, Therese’s large eyes seem to grow even larger, wetter, though she doesn’t cry.

Carol says, “If all I wanted was a one night stand, I wouldn’t care about you having a boyfriend, would I? If I didn’t feel… more for you, I would have handled all of this differently. But I _do_ feel more. I _care_ about you. And you have a boyfriend. It matters. _You_ matter.” When Therese just looks at her, face caught in an expression that marries fear and hope, Carol releases a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I thought it was obvious to you! I thought… my feelings were obvious. I feel like I’ve been making a fool of myself over you, every time we’re together.” Therese looks startled. Carol laughs again, nervously. She breathes in and breathes out. She says, “So why don’t we start this over. Why don’t you tell me what _you_ want?”

Therese swallows, her arms still crossed. But then, with her eyes down, she steps tentatively forward. It puts them within two feet of each other. Carol holds her breath. A moment passes, and then, with another step, they are face to face. When Therese looks up at Carol, Carol can see the gold and hazel threads in her eyes. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Therese whispers.

Carol lets out her breath, slow, shaky.

“The past two weeks… all I’ve done is think about you. When I’m with you I’m happy and nervous and when I’m not with you I’m—” She breaks off. She flushes, as if realizing she has given away more than she wants to. She says anxiously, “I’ve never… with a woman. I’ve never even wanted to. I wouldn’t know how, I’d—disappoint you, I know I would, and you’re so—”

Carol can’t stand it. She pulls Therese to her. Pulls her close against her body. Almost sings when Therese’s arms uncross and wrap around her, tight. Carol holds the side of her head, cradling her under her chin. She’s so warm. She’s so soft. She’s small and yet she feels like a kingdom, a mighty space to be honored and protected and adored.

“Shhh,” Carol soothes her. “Darling, don’t… don’t _worry_ about that, all right? You don’t have to worry about that.”

Therese’s arms tighten around her, and Carol sighs in relief. She has imagined holding Therese so many times, imagined the joy of this girl in her arms. Her imagination didn’t even come close. _This is enough,_ she realizes in amazement. _Just to hold her like this is enough._

And they do hold each other, tight and quiet and blissful. But after a few moments of this silent paradise of closeness, Therese’s face moves. She starts… _nuzzling_ , against Carol’s throat. The sensation makes gooseflesh erupt all over Carol, makes her freeze. Therese doesn’t freeze. Therese tips her head back, nosing under Carol’s chin. Her hands, which had been flat against Carol’s shoulder blades, slide down her back. Land on her waist. Fingers, pressing in. 

“Carol,” she moans.

The sound vibrates against Carol’s pulse point, that tender spot behind her ear where she applies her perfume. And now Therese is touching that spot, and mouthing at that spot, and breathing her in with unmistakable desire. Carol slides a hand up, reaching for the elastic band that holds Therese’s hair back. She pulls it loose, and runs her fingers through the fine and silky strands. Therese moans again, another vibration. Carol takes a handful of her hair and gently pulls her head back, enough that they can look at each other. The hunger in Therese’s eyes is stunning. The part of her full lips is intoxicating. The flush on her cheekbones makes Carol want to raise a flush across her whole body.

 _She has a boyfriend,_ Carol’s traitorous thoughts remind her. _She has a boyfriend, and she’s never done this before. Control yourself. You’ll scare her off._

And would it? Would it frighten Therese to know what Carol is thinking in this moment? The visions going through her head? She sees herself… taking control of Therese’s body. Taking off her clothes and kissing every inch of skin she reveals. Putting her mouth all over her, biting her, sucking her, licking her. Tasting her. In Carol’s feverish imagination, she doesn’t stop after one orgasm, oh no. This beautiful creature in her arms deserves far more than that. By the time Carol is satisfied, the Therese in her wild thoughts is shaking, panting, drenched in sweat and cum and so exhausted from what Carol has given her that she can’t think, can’t speak, can only revel in the pleasure she so clearly, richly deserves.

Carol is so preoccupied with trying to stop herself from completely losing it that she is entirely unprepared—when Therese lifts up, and kisses her.

Their mouths melt together, instantly. A deep, slow kiss. Therese’s hands tighten on her waist. Therese whimpers, and Carol can’t resist. One hand still in her hair, the other looped around her back, Carol turns her toward the nearest wall. She’s careful. Gentle. She holds her against the wall and kisses her deeper, savoring the softness of her, the warmth, trying to go slow—

But it’s Therese who coaxes Carol’s lips apart, whose tongue slides into her mouth to stroke against her own. Shivers race down Carol’s spine, and find a home between her legs. The ache is immediate, almost overwhelming. Therese licks into her again and she actually _whines_ with pleasure, pushing Therese harder into the wall, control fracturing with every little sound and breath passing between their lips.

_Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend…_

Therese reaches for her face, weaving her hands into her hair, kissing her breathlessly. Carol can’t stand it. She reaches for the tie around her throat. Tugs it loose and flings it aside. Finds the buttons at the top of her shirt, forcing herself to be careful so she doesn’t hurt her—but then those buttons are undone and Therese’s neck is exposed and her collarbones are exposed and the top of her chest is exposed. Even as Carol starts pulling the shirt out of her slacks, she dives forward. Finds the join between her neck and shoulder and sucks, hard.

Therese cries out, body pushing into hers, hips rocking forward. Carol gets under her shirt, finds the smooth, delicious skin of her waist and hips and stomach. She’s not sure which of them is more affected by this contact, because even as she groans at the sensation, Therese shudders and gasps, “Please. Please—Carol, I—”

Carol kisses her again. Tongue in her mouth. Tasting her. God, she tastes so good. Carol wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready for her to taste so fucking good—

_Don’t get carried away. Don’t let yourself get carried —_

“Take me to bed,” Therese’s gasping whimper pierces her like an arrow. Therese moaning into her mouth is the most devastating of pleasures. “Please,” she says. “I—want you to— _please_.”

_Oh, fuck, this is torture. It’s torture but—_

“Wait,” Carol wrenches her mouth away. Therese is clearly startled, looks up at her with wide, confused eyes. “I-I-I—” Carol can’t even make words. Too distracted by the pressure of Therese’s pelvis against her own, a warmth she can feel through the layers of their clothes. “Therese I—I think we should—”

She breaks off and the look on Therese’s face is suddenly anxious. The girl asks in a weak voice, “Did I—did I do something wrong?” 

“Oh, Jesus,” Carol sighs, and pushes her face into Therese’s shoulder. Holds it there. Holds perfectly still, grappling for self-control.

After a moment of frozen uncertainty, Therese runs a tentative hand up her spine, cupping the back of her neck. Even that little bit of contact nearly makes Carol break. Therese’s skin smells so… well, like her. And Carol didn’t realize until this moment how addicted she had already become to that smell, to just the faintest whiffs of that smell. Now, having her nose buried in the source, she can’t think straight. But she has to. She _must_.

She pulls back again. Therese looks a little less worried, but still confused. Her mouth is swollen and red, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. She’s so fucking beautiful it’s unbearable.

“Therese, I—” Carol swallows hard. “I… believe me. You have no idea how much I… There’s nothing I want more right now than to take you to bed. I—I’ve wanted that almost since the first time I saw you, but… Well, I guess there _is_ one thing I want more.” Off Therese’s frowning look, Carol steels herself, and says, “I want you to be free.”

Therese blinks a few times. Then realization hits. Her eyes widen. “Carol, I’m going to break up with him. I don’t love him. I never did. I swear—”

“I believe you.”

“And I—God, I have the right to do what I want, don’t I? He doesn’t _own_ me—”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” Therese retorts.

“It’s about—”

Carol breaks off. Swallows again. She looks down, to where their bodies are pressed together. She’s can’t meet her eyes; it’s too much, too vulnerable. She doesn’t know how to explain to her, what she’s afraid of. That they’ll do this… and then, Therese will go back to him. 

“I just… I want you to be sure,” she whispers. “I want you to take the time… to talk to him and… to just be sure.”

The answering silence is deafening. Carol’s heart beats painfully. Any moment now Therese is going to push her away. She’ll be angry—offended—hurt. Any moment now she’ll—

Carol almost jumps at the sensation of Therese’s finger, touching her under the chin. Lifting her head. She expects to see recrimination. Instead, she is met with one of the gentlest, most tender looks she has had the privilege to experience. Therese’s eyes are warm and serious.

Softly she asks, “Is that what _you_ need, Carol?”

Carol didn’t expect this. She was determined to insist on whatever Therese needed. On caring for her and making sure that she did not move too fast. Her own need, her own insecurity, she never intended to verbalize. And yet Therese’s question has turned the tables. Carol is so unprepared that she can’t seem to answer. But Therese, still with that sweet gentleness in her face, doesn’t make her answer.

“All right,” she says. She takes a deep breath, clearly trying to bring herself under control. The sight of this makes Carol’s blood burn. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. While you’re in Buffalo. And when you come back, it’ll be done. Does that sound okay?”

Carol can’t do anything but nod, mute with shock.

Therese gives her a sweet smile, and then relaxes her hold around Carol’s body, clearly intending them to separate. Instead, Carol grabs her close, holds her tight. With a sigh of relief, Therese holds her back, just as tightly.

“Thank you,” Carol whispers, her heart in her throat.

Therese strokes her hair and presses her face into her neck and hums with pleasure. Then she says in a soft, reluctant voice, “I should probably go home. For the sake of your virtue.”

Carol blurts a laugh, pulling back to look at her in delight. Therese laughs, too, and for a moment they are both giggling. Full of happiness. But then Carol shakes her head, growing serious again.

“No, I… I don’t want you out this late. Look, you can stay here. Usually I sleep in Abby’s guest room but you can have it, and I’ll take Abby’s bed.”

Therese looks across the living room toward the two bedroom doors on the other side of the apartment. Then, she starts gnawing at her bottom lip. It’s somehow simultaneously adorable and provocative and Carol is at her wits end. When Therese looks at her again she seems shy and… cautious.

“Can I… can’t I sleep with you?” She quickly adds, “ _Just_ sleep. I don’t like unfamiliar places. They make me… anxious, and I feel like… being here with you but not being with you… I just—I wouldn’t like it.” Carol hesitates, and Therese adds. “I can be good, I promise.”

Carol scoffs, “Maybe _you_ can.” 

A delighted smile. A blush of joy. But Therese says earnestly. “I just want to be close to you, tonight. That’s enough for me, Carol. I just… I think I… need that. Please?”

These are the magic words. _I will give you whatever the fuck you want,_ she thinks fiercely. _I will lasso the goddamn moon for you, Therese Belivet._

She takes Therese’s face in her hands and kisses her once, very gently. Therese makes a soft sound, aching and beautiful. When Carol pulls back, she is already nodding. “Yes,” she says. “Yes I… I think I need that, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You still diggin' that slow burn?


	13. Chapter 13

Therese wakes in a cocoon of warmth, one of Carol’s arms cushioning her head. Carol’s nose is pressed into the back of her neck, and her other arm is looped around her waist, cradling her against the front of her body. Normally Therese hates for anyone to be behind her. It frightens her, makes her jumpy and restless. But this… this is the most comforting, beautiful thing she has felt in—well, maybe ever. She had no idea that it could feel so safe. To be close to someone. Held by someone. She had no idea…

There’s bright sunlight coming in through the window, and Therese has no idea how late it is, but she doesn’t care. She lies still, reveling in Carol’s slow and steady breaths against her back. She never wants to move. She feels sleepy but rested, and so content.

Her thoughts drift back to the previous night. They went into Abby’s room to rummage for pajamas. At first she told Carol she could just sleep in her clothes, but the older woman gave her a look that put paid to that. Then Therese had asked, fighting to hide her smile, “I don’t want to take Abby’s things. I can sleep in my underwear.”

Carol, who had turned toward the closet, chuckled in a way so low and sultry that Therese’s skin prickled.

“You do that and I’m sleeping naked just to get back at you.”

Well.

In the end Carol found her a pair of boxers and an over-sized Brittney Griner t-shirt. She showed Therese where the bathroom was. Therese wrestled her insecurity over wearing Abby’s things, and changed. But when she went back to the guest room—

Carol was turning down the duvet. And Carol had changed, too. Gone was that gorgeous dress. She’d replaced it with a low-slung pair of sweatpants, and a fitted white tank top.

Therese’s brain short-circuited. The tank-top was a little too short for Carol’s long torso. Therese could see her sharp hipbones, and the bottom of her belly. She could see her arms, lean, and deliciously toned. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and Carol’s nipples were hard, her breasts full. Therese (who up until two weeks ago had only ever noticed a woman’s breasts in the context of bemoaning her own, small chest) felt her mouth go dry.

Carol, finishing with the duvet, stood up and looked at her. Therese could not imagine that her own pajamas would be anywhere near so distracting, but a moment later she was blushing crimson, as Carol’s eyes tracked up her bare legs.

How they managed to go to sleep is a bit of a miracle. Therese thinks no two women in history ever exercised more restraint. But she had been determined. Carol was strong and commanding and refined—but Carol was also a woman whose pale gray eyes spoke of past hurts and present doubts. It was clear to Therese that Carol was insecure about her, worried that she would go back to Richard (how anyone could go back to Richard after kissing Carol was unfathomable), and if breaking up with him before they did… anything… would restore her confidence, well. Therese would have called him right then and there if she didn’t suspect he was already passed out drunk somewhere.

 _First order of business,_ she tells herself. _Go to Richard’s. Break up with him._

But then, Carol’s face starts rubbing against her, and Carol’s hips shift, and Carol’s arm gathers her somehow closer.

 _Second order of business,_ Therese amends.

Carol is clearly waking up. She makes a little humming sound that vibrates against Therese’s neck, creating shockwaves of gooseflesh. Therese’s shirt has ridden up in the night, exposing her stomach and the small of her back, and Carol’s hand is caught in the shirt, making a loose fist under her breast. Now, Carol’s fingers relax—and trail down.

The minute those fingers find her stomach, Therese sighs. 

Carol mumbles something. Her thumb strokes Therese’s hip bone, and Therese shivers.

“Ticklish,” she explains, trying to cover up the fact that she has _zero_ chill.

Carol chuckles. It’s low, sleep-rough. It _destroys_ her.

“Sleep well?” Carol purrs. Nevermind. _That_ destroys her.

Therese swallows, nods. She reaches down to slide her fingers between Carol’s, so that both their hands are pressed against her belly.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Y-you?”

A growling affirmation. “Like the dead. You’re perfect for my insomnia.”

Therese frowns, half turning her head. “You have insomnia?”

Carol pauses. Answers, “Off and on, for years… but not last night.”

Carol shifts again, one knee pressing between Therese’s, Therese’s foot hooking over her ankle. Carol starts nuzzling at her again, a sound of happiness and bliss.

“You feel so good,” she whispers.

Therese flushes with pleasure. She can’t think of anything more wonderful than to feel good to Carol. To fit like this, with Carol.

“I wish you weren’t going to Buffalo,” she admits.

Carol nods against her, sighing. “I know. But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Therese frowns. “I thought you were going to take a few days?”

A soft laugh of amusement. Carol kisses her shoulder.

“That was before, wasn’t it, Darling?”

Therese grins with joy. She draws their clasped hands up to her lips, kissing Carol’s knuckles once, twice, three times. Carol hums, a blissful sound. She says, “You could always come with me… You know, impromptu road trip?”

“God, I wish,” Therese says regretfully. “But even if I wanted to tell Tommy I really was sick and bail on work and…” she stops herself, embarrassed to admit that she can’t afford it. She says instead. “Well, the job is still new. I can’t burn bridges.”

“I understand,” Carol assures her. She slips her hand loose from Therese’s and runs it gently up and down her arm. “Like I said, I’ll be back tomorrow. We can road trip another time.”

 _Another time_ , thinks Therese happily. _She wants another time, with me._

For a moment they lie in silence. It must be late morning already, but Therese can’t even be fucked to find her phone, too relaxed, too happy.

Carol asks after a bit, “What time do you start work tomorrow?”

“I always work the night shift. 6:00 to 1:00.” Therese says. Carol says nothing. It occurs to Therese why she asked—she wants to see her. But Carol might not even get back into town until after six, and so… “Phil works the day shift. He owes me a favor. I could try to switch with him for tomorrow?”

Carol kisses her shoulder again. Her hand slips around her waist once more, open palm pressed to her ribs. “Really?” she asks, with unmistakable hope.

“Yes,” Therese nods.

“I was just thinking that… well, maybe I could come to your place. See those photographs?”

Her fingers start drawing gentle patterns, just beneath Therese’s breast. It is… distracting. Therese shifts restlessly, her bottom pressing back into Carol’s pelvis.

“Yeah,” she says. “I… I’d like that.”

A long pause, edged now with glimmering tension. Carol’s thumb skims the underside of her breast, and Therese’s nipples go hard in an instant.

“Would you?” Carol murmurs.

Therese knows better, but she can’t help herself. She shifts her hips again. Carol’s knee between hers slips forward, lifts up, her thigh pressing between Therese’s legs—where she is suddenly warm and aching.

“I—I—yes. I would.”

Carol nudges under her hair. Lips trail down her neck, followed by a graze of teeth and a hint of wetness from her tongue. Therese chokes down a whimper. Carol said she wanted to wait. Carol asked her to wait. She—she can’t—

Carol’s voice is low in her ear. “What else would you like?”

The thigh between her legs starts rocking gently, rubbing her right where she needs it, pleasure blooming outward from the point of contact.

“Th-that—” Therese groans. “That feels good.”

“Yeah?” Carol asks.

Her hand slides up, and suddenly she is cupping Therese’s breast, squeezing gently. Therese shudders, and when Carol’s thumb circles her nipple, she gasps.

“Oh! Oh… y-yes. Yes, that feels good.”

Therese shuts her eyes. Presses her head back against Carol’s shoulder. Starts gently rocking her hips in counterpoint to Carol’s rocking. She revels in Carol’s mouth, gently biting her shoulder. Glories in Carol’s hand, massaging her with the perfect firmness. It’s as if a dam has broken. She floods with wetness, sticky and warm, and Carol’s thigh is grinding _perfectly_ into her clit. Nothing Richard has ever done to her has lit her up the way this is lighting her up, making her pant, making her _need_ —

Carol shifts again; she puts her hand on Therese’s hip. With her other arm, the one that has been under her head, she reaches around her to grasp her other breast. To take her nipple between finger and thumb, gently tweaking. Now Therese feels completely surrounded by her, held by her, owned by her. Carol licks up the side of her throat, whispering into her ear, “God, you’re perfect. So gorgeous. Is this okay, Angel?”

Therese has never been one for pet names, but something about this makes her glow. And then gasp, as Carol’s knee nudges particularly hard. Therese’s hand flies up, fingers sliding into Carol’s hair and pulling her face tight against her. Carol answers by biting her, sucking and groaning. They find a rhythm, a push and pull that is urgent but steady. With one hand on her breast and the other grasping her hip, Carol moves her, controlling her pace. Carol murmurs in her ear and sucks and kisses her neck and her shoulder and Carol toys with her nipple and grips her hip and it—it—

“C-carol,” she whimpers. “I—I—I’m close.”

Carol groans, and that sound almost pushes her over. Everything is ratcheting inside her, the pleasure in her clit growing sharp and urgent. Carol doesn’t stop.

Therese whines, shudders, reminds her, “You—you said y-y-you wanted to wait.”

Only then does she realize that Carol is panting for breath. Only then does she feel it—the hardness of Carol’s nipples against her back; the focus of Carol’s pelvis, pushing into her ass. The arousal, writ in every movement and sound from Carol’s body. This realization brings her right to the cusp, has her gasping out in desperation, “Carol—I’m—if you don’t stop I’m—”

“Do you want me to stop?” Carol gasps in her ear, growls in her ear, movements unceasing, “Or do you want me to make you come?”

Therese sobs, but now she can’t hold back, rocking her own hips harder, chasing sensation, even as she makes one last attempt— “I d-d-don’t want you to—to regret—”

Instantly, Carol’s hand is sliding down, wedging between her own thigh, and Therese’s cunt. She doesn’t go under her boxers, but she cups her there. _Squeezes_ —and it’s all over. Therese _convulses_ with pleasure, sex pulsing, body flushing hot and erupting with shivers of bliss. Carol doesn’t stop, just keeps rocking and squeezing. It’s so good. It’s feel so good—and it’s so different from anything that has ever made her come before. So different from touching herself. So different from Richard.

She rides the wave of it for what feels like a short eternity, head pressed back against Carol’s shoulder and Carol mouthing at her neck and Carol’s breaths hot against her skin. Every muscle in Therese’s body is taut with consuming pleasure. When it finally starts to fade, when it shifts from crashing waves to the lazy surf of aftershocks, her body goes limp.

Carol relaxes her hand, slides it out from between her legs, and buries her face against Therese’s hair. They are both breathing hard, and Therese is damp with sweat. Carol brushes a lock of hair behind her ear and kisses her jaw, before settling down behind her. They lie together, quiet, panting, and Therese has rarely felt such a deep, bone-melting contentment. With Richard, the end of sex is always a restless experience for her, wondering how soon she has to wait before she can get up. But this… she feels like she could fall asleep again, just drift off in Carol’s warm embrace, and it would be perfect—as perfect as the echoes of pleasure still fluttering outward from her sex.

The startling trill of a phone makes them both jump. Carol grumbles, shifts momentarily away from her. She must grab her phone, for after a moment she snorts a laugh, then spoons up against her again.

“What is it?” Therese mumbles.

“Abby,” Carol says. “She’s on her way home.”

Therese’s body tightens with alarm. “Oh—do we—I should—should I go?”

“Darling, relax,” Carol soothes, stroking her hip. “She’s coming from Queens. We have a little time.”

“Oh,” Therese allows herself to melt back against Carol’s back. “In that case…”

“Mmhm,” Carol says, peppering kisses down her neck—and then licking up the length of it. Therese whimpers. Carol’s voice is full of humor and arousal. “You taste good.”

“You’re a menace,” Therese replies.

A throaty chuckle. “Therese, I woke up with your ass in my lap. I think I’ve shown remarkable restraint.”

Therese says cautiously, “I—I know you wanted to wait—until—”

“Shh. It’s all right. It was… perfect. You were perfect.” But then her body tenses. Her voice is suddenly unsure. “That is—was it all right with you?”

Therese flips around in her arms, takes her face in her hands, and kisses her.

They get lost in it. Long, slow minutes of kissing, of holding each other close, of touching each other and stroking each other and moaning into each other’s mouths. It doesn’t escalate. Part of Therese is disappointed. Part of her is relieved. She wants badly to touch Carol, to feel her, to taste her—and she’s terrified that she’ll do it wrong. Or, that even if she does it ‘right’ Carol will be disappointed. Therese has never felt this before, this almost overwhelming desire to make another person feel good. And every little sound that Carol makes, every soft moan and murmur and sigh, only deepens that desire. _Soon_ , she thinks. _Soon_.

Eventually they do get up. For sanity’s sake, they agree to shower separately, and Therese goes into the bathroom with her bundle of work clothes and an extra towel. In the shower, she feels the places that Carol has touched this morning. Her lips. Her shoulder and neck. Her ear and her breasts and hips. She even touches herself between her legs, startled by the slick mess she discovers. Her body sings with pleasure, with remembered pleasure, with anticipation. Carol will be back tomorrow. Carol will come to her apartment tomorrow. And that means…

She finishes up in the shower, and shuts off the water. As soon as she steps out, she hears it: the sound of voices. She doesn’t know what they’re saying, but a bright eruption of laughter goes through her like an arrow. Carol’s laughter, happy. In a rush of nervousness Therese realizes that Abby must be back. She dresses quickly, and then regards the pajamas she borrowed. She grabs the boxers, deciding that she’ll take them home and wash them before returning them. Then she sees the sticky wet spot in the crotch, and blushes with embarrassment. Maybe she’ll buy Abby a new pair, instead.

Tying back her damp hair, Therese takes a deep breath, and leaves the bathroom.

She finds them in the kitchen. Abby is seated at the breakfast table and Carol is pouring herself a cup of coffee. They both look up at her entry. Carol’s smile is warm and adoring; Abby’s is devious.

“Why, good morning,” she drawls. Then she picks something up off the table, holding it up. Therese’s eyes widen, recognizing her necktie. “This yours?”

“Uh,” Therese glances nervously at Carol, then steps forward to accept the tie from Abby’s outstretched hand. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

“To be honest I expected to find a whole trail of clothes when I got back,” says Abby.

Therese blushes. Carol scoffs. “You’re one to talk! How many times have I found your g-strings just lying around?”

“I don’t wear g-strings.”

“Exactly.”

Abby grins, shrugging. Therese notes a fairly stark hickey on Abby’s exposed collarbone, and realizes she never checked her own neck for marks. But Carol distracts her, asking—

“Coffee, Sweetheart?”

The endearment is as overpowering as one of Carol’s kisses. Therese glows with pleasure, and nods. Soon she has a mug of steaming coffee in her hands, and she sips gratefully. She casts a surreptitious glance at the microwave clock. Turns out it’s only 10. Still—

“I should—” she clears her throat nervously. “I should probably get going?”

Carol, drinking from her cup of coffee, watches her over the rim. There is nothing deliberately provocative about it, and yet it makes Therese’s blood _sing_. After a moment Carol says, “Abby is driving me home. We can drop you.”

“It would be _my honor_ ,” says Abby, theatrical, smirking, “to drive you to your inevitably awkward goodbye.”

Carol rolls her eyes. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“At least I got laid last night,” Abby says, and then looks at Therese with a hiked eyebrow. “Carol says she didn’t get laid last night. Is that true?”

“Abby!” Carol cries.

“I’m just asking! God knows you’d lie to my face, but this one,” she peruses Therese, thoughtful. “She’s got one of those angelically honest faces.” She asks Therese, “Is it for real or just a costume?”

“I—I don’t think I’m angelically honest.”

“Just angelic then. Mkay.”

“Ignore her,” Carol tells Therese, with an apologetic grimace. “She thinks that picking up strangers in bars makes her some kind of lesbian hero.”

This time, Therese grins, some of her nerves dissipating with her amusement. Carol seeing it, grins back, and for a moment they just look at each other, grinning foolishly, full of warmth—

“Oh, Jesus,” Abby sighs, and stands up. She drains the last of her mug of coffee and hip checks Carol to get to the sink. “I don’t usually take my coffee with sugar but you two are adorable. Now, I’m just gonna grab a quick shower and then we can go. Try to behave while I’m gone.”

Therese says again, “Oh, no, I’m just gonna—the subway.”

“Nonsense!” Abby exclaims. “I’m already driving Carol, and you live down by NYU, right? It’s not out of my way.”

Therese hedges, glances at Carol, who’s frowning. After a moment she says, “Well, yes, but… I’ve got to go to Staten Island this morning.”

“Staten Island!” Abby cries. “Why the fuck would you go to Staten Island?”

Therese throws Carol another look, and says, “I need to talk to someone who lives out there. And I want to get it over with as soon as possible.”

Immediately, the look of confusion on Carol’s face melts away, replaced by a soft happiness, by eyes wide and adoring, by color high on her cheekbones and a shy smile on her lips. Therese’s stomach flutters, and she smiles back, and for a moment they just stare at each other, all their feelings laid bare. Abby, still obviously perplexed, looks back and forth between them suspiciously. Then, she shrugs.

“All right, then. I’ll drive you to Staten Island. Feel free to keep eye-fucking each other. I’ll be right back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for virtue...


	14. Chapter 14

As they pull onto the nearest freeway entrance out of Staten Island, Carol finds herself wishing that Therese had taken the subway. If Therese had taken the subway, they could at least have had a proper goodbye, a private goodbye. But Carol could hardly hop out of the car with her in front of Richard’s apartment. And she suspected that Therese would be too shy to kiss her in front of Abby. So they had to make do with a long stare, and promises to talk later, and Therese bashfully murmuring, “Bye,” as she left the car.

After waking up as they did, holding her as she did, touching her and kissing her and making her come in a beautiful, overwhelming rush—well, this goodbye feels completely unsatisfying. And happy as Carol is, she can’t shake the tiny voice in her head that thinks, _Maybe this is it. Maybe she’ll change her mind. Maybe I’ll never see her again…_

“Jesus,” Abby says, merging them into traffic. “You’re not going off to war, Carol. You’ll see her tomorrow.”

Carol grumbles, noncommittal, then suddenly remembers—

“What did you say to Therese? While I was in the bathroom?”

After Abby had her shower, Carol had popped in to wash her face and put on her makeup, and when she came out again less than five minutes later, Abby had been smirking and Therese had been pink to the roots of her hair.

Now, Abby gives a vague shrug.

“Abigail.”

“I just, you know… gave her the talk.”

_“What!?”_

“I was very cool about it. Not at all terrifying or threatening. You know, just a friendly, ‘What are your intentions?’”

“Abby, for fuck’s sake! Are you trying to scare her off!?”

“Even if I was, it didn’t work. That kid’s a stone cold killer. She looked me dead in the eye, and you know what she said?” Carol’s heart stutters; she stares at Abby in mute terror, and Abby smirks. “She said, ‘To treat her exactly as she deserves.’”

Carol blinks. It takes a moment for the words to sink in. And then, they do. Suddenly she has to look away from Abby, determined to hide the blush that she can feel, in her neck and cheeks. With it comes a warmth so much deeper than blood flow, a warmth of the soul, a happiness that completely overwhelms her. She thinks this might just be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about her.

She can hear the smirk in Abby’s voice, “Ya all right over there? Don’t swoon in my car.”

Carol clears her throat; hopes her blush has mostly dissipated. Faces forward again and says primly, “You’re still an asshole.”

“I was looking out for you! And don’t worry, I looked out for her, too. It’s clear as day she’s totally smitten with you, and totally terrified to fuck it up. I told her not to worry. That the two of you would figure it out together.”

Carol looks at her, surprised. “Really? You said that?”

“Mmhmm. Also, I told her not to bother watching porn; that if she wanted to learn how to please a woman, she should check out fanfiction.” 

Carol’s jaw drops. She stares at Abby unblinking for a good five seconds.

“You’re joking, right?”

Abby gives a little shrug, her lips spread in a devious smile. “It’s good advice.”

_“Fanfiction!?”_

“That girl has fluff and smut written on her forehead.”

“Abby, do you know what kind of weird ass sub genres exist in fanfiction!?”

“Don’t judge. To each their own.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“Carol,” Abby sighs, growing marginally more serious. “Look. I realize you and I are dinosaurs, but I’d like you to cast back in your memory to that day, long, long, long ago, when you realized you wanted to touch a girl for the first time. Do you remember that? Do you remember how fucking terrifying it was?”

Almost against her will, Carol’s mind takes her to those days. Fourteen years old. Debbie Gallagher on the soccer team. A drop of sweat running down her neck that Carol, gangly and pimply and with braces, could _not_ stop staring at.

Abby lets her scowl in her seat for almost a minute before she makes an exasperated sound and Carol admits grudgingly, “Yes. I remember.”

“Exactly. Therese may be older than we were, but this has got to be scary as fuck for her. What I wouldn’t have given to have some older lesbian offer me pointers.”

“Emphasis on the ‘older.’”

“And so that’s what I did. Believe me, all that blushing is not a sign of weak character. She’s gonna be in research mode until she sees you again.”

Carol wants to remain irritated, but at Abby’s words, she is suddenly besieged by images of Therese ‘in research mode.’ She pictures that full, succulent bottom lip caught between her teeth. Pictures those big green eyes wide but focused. Pictures the bloom high on those cheeks…

It is all so provocative that for a moment she can’t even think.

Then, recovering, she mutters, “You’re still dead to me.”

Abby scoffs. “Now I _know_ you didn’t get laid. You’re so grumpy!”

“I’m not grumpy, I just—I don’t want her to worry about… _performing_ for me. That part of it. For now I just want her to… to feel…”

Carol trails off. There’s a beat of silence. Then, slightly incredulous, Abby asks, “Jesus, are you _already_ in love with her?”

“What!?” Carol cries. “No! It’s way too soon for that.”

“Should I order the U-Haul?”

“I hate you.”

“Seriously. All these feelings and you haven’t even made her come yet? Shit.”

Carol flashes back to this morning. Feels the weight of Therese’s breast in her hands. Feels the heat and dampness leaking through her pajamas. The gasp and shudder that went through her, so exquisite, so beautiful—

Unable to contain her smug smirk, Carol retorts, “I said we didn’t have sex. I definitely made her come.”

Abby’s head snaps toward her so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t get whiplash. Carol just keeps smirking, gazing straight ahead, as her best friend battles between watching the road and staring at her.

“Um… how are those two things different?”

“Oh, when I fuck her for real, she’ll know the difference.”

A blurt of laughter.

“Carol, you _dog_! Tell me everything!”

“No.”

“You gotta give me something!”

Carol hesitates, but there’s something about Abby’s vibrant excitement, and about her own latent arousal and pride, that finally prompts her to admit, “Let’s just say… a little grinding goes a long way.”

Now Abby’s laugh is gleeful. Carol can’t help it. She laughs, too, and both of them are laughing, and even though it has been five years, for the first time Carol allows herself to believe that the fall out of their failed affair really is over. That Abby is truly, unequivocally happy for her.

Their laughter peters out. Abby wipes away a tear, and swats her on the arm. “Damn, Carol. Well done. That is not as easy to do as fanfiction makes it sound!” 

<><><>

Carol doesn’t like driving alone. Halfway to Buffalo, she keeps thinking how much better it would be if Therese had come with her. And not only because Carol has a very nice room waiting for her at the Curtiss Hotel, and nowhere to be in the morning. She imagines sleeping late, curled around Therese’s body as she was this morning. Imagines room service and showering together and taking their time on the drive home.

She can see it all so clearly, and that only makes the reality more dispiriting. She and Therese agreed that Therese would call her tonight on her break, around 9 o’clock. But all day Carol has to fight the impulse to call her from the road. Why didn’t she at least ask Therese to text her and let her know how things went with Richard? Not knowing is torture, and gives fertile ground to worry. Her darkest thoughts jump to partner violence statistics, while her averagely dark thoughts imagine Richard persuading Therese to stay together.

 _Just call her_ , her mind whisper.

But Carol can’t. She doesn’t want to seem clingy, or mistrustful. She doesn’t want to be like Richard, who hounded Therese with phone calls like he owned her. No, they agreed to talk this evening, and Carol’s going to keep her word. Even if it’s making this drive feel interminable.

She reaches her client’s house just east of Buffalo at 7:30. It’s all she can do not to rush through it as fast as possible. This is a family who will doubtless refer other clients to her. She needs to grease the wheels. But their friendly chit chat, the gushing over her work—she can barely pay attention, so anxious to get to the hotel and call Therese. Luckily, her client seems sensitive to the fact that she’s been driving all day, and urges her to go get some sleep before her drive home. Recommends her a restaurant for breakfast. Gratefully, Carol says goodbye, and she’s back on the road in no time, continuing into the city proper. 

She’s checked in by 8:30, tossing her carry-on and coat onto the bag, and just about to call Therese when her phone rings. It’s Harge.

“Hello?” greets Carol uncertainly.

“Mommy!”

Carol breathes a sigh of relief. Just Rindy’s bedtime call. 

“Hello, my Darling,” she cries, sitting down on the bed.

“Mommy, Daddy let me stay up late last night! I wanted to stay up all the way to midnight but I guess I fell asleep. But Daddy gave me fuzzy apple juice cuz that’s what people have on New Year’s, and it made my nose itch. Then, today, Daddy had to work and Vanessa came and got me and we went to the movies! It was the one about—”

Carol listens as Rindy takes her through the entire plot of some movie about animals, oohing and gasping at the appropriate times, and wondering privately why Harge was working, and wishing with a sudden tightness in her throat that she was with Rindy now, holding her as she tells her stories. Sharing custody has given her a lot more freedom, but it has also been the most painful part of the divorce, by far.

Then Rindy cries, “Mommy, I get to see you tomorrow!”

“Not til Monday, sweet pea,” Carol corrects. “I’m going to come pick you up in two days.”

“No, Mommy, that’s not what Daddy said,” Rindy argues. “He said tomorrow.”

Carol feels a sudden frisson of unease. “Baby, where is your daddy? Why don’t you let me talk to him for a minute?”

Harge must have been right there, because suddenly his brusque voice is in the phone. “Carol. Yes, I have to bring Rindy back to you tomorrow. Now I know you’re dropping off some chairs or something but if I can have her to you by noon, that would be best.”

Carol is momentarily too stunned to react, and then, a wave of irritation goes through her. “No, Harge, that wouldn’t be best. You have Rindy through Monday. You can’t change plans at the last minute like this.”

“Carol, don’t be difficult. Something has come up with work and Vanessa is off tomorrow. I need you to take her.”

“No, Harge.”

Now his anger is palpable. “Jesus, Carol, I thought you’d want her!”

Carol imagines Rindy nearby, listening in, and in a fury she hisses at him, “ _Don’t talk like that in front of her!_ ”

He huffs, “Fine, hold on.”

He must be walking out of the room, and Carol tells him, “Of _course_ I want her, but I can’t tomorrow. I won’t be home in time, for one, and I have plans once I’m back.”

“What, _with Abby_!? I’m sure you can change them!”

Carol sets her teeth, her body vibrating with rage. In the past, she would have caved. Let him bully her. Let her own guilt about the divorce and what it’s done to Rindy stop her from sticking up for herself. But meeting Therese has made her realize—Harge has no claim on her anymore, no right to demand she change her life for him. And if he’s ever really going to learn that, it has to start now.

“It’s none of your goddamn business who my plans are with and no, I can’t change them.”

Harge falls silent. Carol knows it isn’t a silence of acquiescence, but of calculation. She can practically see his brow furrowing as he thinks through his next plan of attack.

“So what do you suggest I do?” he asks at last, voice cold and accusatory, as if this whole thing is her fault.

Carol fights like hell against the impulse to scream at him. Finally, breathing in through her nose, she says, “What about your mother?”

“She can’t tomorrow; she’s at the club all day for a benefit.”

Carol breathes out. “What about Cy and Jeanette? They’re always saying they’d love to have her.”

Another pause, Harge obviously thinking about it. “Will you call her?” he asks.

Carol digs her palm into her forehead, and in as calm a voice as she can manage, replies, “Harge, you said you wanted joint custody. That means that you have to share these responsibilities. I am away for work. You have Jeanette’s number so _you_ can call her. I’m not your secretary.”

He sneers, “Don’t be condescending, Carol.”

That’s the last she can take.

“Don’t behave like a useless _child_ , Harge! You’re her father. _Be_ a father!”

He hangs up on her.

“Fuck!” Carol snaps, and throws her phone down on the bed. “Fuck!”

She digs into her purse for the pack of cigarettes she bought on her way out of town. She’s just resolved to go downstairs to smoke when her phone starts to ring again. She looks angrily at the caller ID—

It’s Therese.

Carol freezes, staring. Adrenaline has flooded her body; her eyes at hot with the tears she’s trying to control. She doesn’t want to talk to Therese when she’s like this—doesn’t want her to hear the anger and pain in her voice. She should reject the call. Take a shower to calm down. Call her after.

Carol picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Carol?”

“Yes—hi.”

“Hi.”

There’s a beat of silence, an awkward hesitation from both of them, and then Therese says again, low and bashful, “Hi.”

Something about this, the sweetness of this, makes Carol’s body unclench. She releases a soft chuckle, feeling gentleness return to her body. She puts her feet up on the bed and sits back against the headboard. She wipes a hand down her face, rubbing away the few tears that had leaked out. She murmurs, “How are you?”

“Oh, I… I’m fine. Sorry, I started my break a little earlier than I expected. Is this a bad time?”

“No,” says Carol definitively. “No, this is perfect.”

Another silence, but this time it doesn’t feel awkward, but rather, shy, and pleased.

“How was your drive?”

“Long. I wished you were with me.”

She can practically see Therese’s smile, revels the girl’s soft voice saying, “Me, too. I kept wanting to call you to see how you were, but I didn’t want to bother you while you were driving.”

Carol nearly laughs at the irony, but is prevented when she notices for the first time that Therese’s voice is rough. She sounds exhausted. Worriedly, Carol asks her, “Are you okay? Did you—?”

She can’t bring herself to say the words, afraid to seem desperate, but in the end it’s not necessary because Therese tells her, “Yes. I talked to him this morning. It took almost an hour to get it through to him that I was serious. He… wasn’t happy.”

Carol remembers when she finally told Harge that she wanted more than a separation, but a divorce. His blustering and yelling and refusals. The whole thing was awful. She tells Therese, “I’m sorry, Sweetheart. These things are awful. Was he—was he terrible to you?”

_Harge’s insults. Harge’s accusations._

Therese sighs. “Yes, a little. He guessed right away that you were the reason. He accused me of having an affair with you, which I guess I couldn’t really deny.”

Carol feels a hit of guilt. Of personal responsibility—

“But I didn’t care about that,” Therese replies. “He’s cheated on me, too, it turns out. He’s always going out to bars while I’m working and apparently I never put out enough, so there have been quite a few one night stands.”

Anger surges through Carol, anger and dread at the thought of Therese exposed to this kind of intentionally hurtful revelation. But it also doesn’t escape her notice (or fail to produce a vindicative pleasure) that Therese and Richard have apparently not been having much sex.

Therese sighs again, wearily. She says, “I went to the clinic right afterwards to get checked. I rushed my results so I should know by tomorrow if I’m clean. I just… want to be sure, before we see each other.”

Those words make something completely different surge through Carol. Worry, yes, of course (if Richard has exposed her to something, Carol will kill him), but also… a rather embarrassing and incongruous shiver of arousal. Therese wants to be sure. Sure for them. Sure, so that they can—

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Carol tells her gently. “Everything will be fine. Just so you know, I…” she clears her throat. “It’s been a long time for me, and… I got checked afterwards. So… you don’t have to worry about that.”

Carol dreads what Therese will think of this—worries if she’ll think it’s strange for a married woman to get tested after sex with her husband, and thus surmise that Harge isn’t the last person she had sex with. No, that honor goes to some woman in a bar whose name Carol never learned and whose face she barely remembers. Just thinking of it washes her with shame, with fear that she will have to explain, but—

“I wasn’t worried,” says Therese, quietly. “I just… wish I was with you right now. Richard said some really awful things.”

“Whatever he said, he’s wrong,” says Carol, with bite. Then, calming down. “Tell me what he said.”

There’s a long silence. Therese’s self-consciousness and uncertainty are obvious when she finally answers, “He says you’ll get tired of me. That I’ll be begging him in a couple of weeks to take me back.”

Carol grinds her jaw, curses Richard up and down in her head. But with Therese, she is soft and gentle. “But we’ve discussed this already, haven’t we, Darling? Are you still worried about it? Worried that you’re just a passing diversion to me?”

She hears Therese swallow, before at last she admits with laudable courage, “A little, I think…”

Carol can’t help it; she laughs softly, full of self-deprecation. Therese asks, “What?”

“Oh, it’s just… I’ve been worried that _you_ won’t want _me_. That you’ll regret leaving Richard or that this is just a… novelty for you.”

Now Therese laughs, a throaty chuckle that wakes up Carol’s senses.

“You’re definitely a novelty,” Therese tells her. “But not one I would ever regret.”

Carol leans her head back on the headboard; closes her eyes. She breathes in slowly and lets it out. “Me, neither,” she says. And then, with all the sincerity that she feels— “You’re not a diversion, Therese.”

She wants to say, ‘You’re so much more than that.’ But she can’t quite bring herself to do it. Therese asks, “Can you still come over tomorrow?”

Carol says, “You talked to Phil?”

“Yeah. He switched shifts with me. I’ll be done at 6 and home by 6:30.”

“Should I come over at 7? 8?”

“Come at 7,” Therese replies, with just a hint of very pleasing urgency in her voice. Apparently Carol isn’t the only one who can’t stand this waiting game. “And… well, if you want to you could… spend the night.”

Carol nearly pumps her fist in the air. Instead, she answers very calmly, “I’d like that.”

“Okay,” Therese’s voice is full of her smile. What Carol wouldn’t give to touch her right now, to kiss that perfect bottom lip. Therese says shyly, “I… miss you. Is that weird?”

“No,” Carol swiftly assures her. “I don’t think it’s weird. I feel the same way.”

Therese hesitates, and then, “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispers, an ache in her voice. “I can’t stop thinking about last night and… this morning.”

Carol swallows. The arousal she has been managing to keep at bay surges through her in a rush. She rubs the back of her neck. Slides her hand down, to the base of her own throat, remembering when she loosed the tie from around Therese’s neck. She closes her eyes again, picturing Therese on the phone. Is she out behind the bar again? Sitting at the table as they did last night?

“Is that so?” Carol drawls

“I—” Therese breathes in and lets it out slowly, “I’ve never… like that… before.”

Carol’s mouth goes dry. Almost unconsciously, her hand moves from her throat, down between her breasts, trailing across her own stomach. She asks in her lowest voice, “Was it all right?”

“Yes,” Therese murmurs, sounding like silk, like sin, like the most delicious thing Carol has ever heard. “It was perfect. _You_ were perfect.”

Carol can’t help herself. Her hand has slid down to the waistband of her trousers. She toys absently with the button, and asks, “What was perfect about it? How did it make you feel?”

“Good,” Therese answers, a slight roughness in her voice. “And… nervous. But also—so safe.”

That makes such a bloom of happiness erupt in Carol’s heart that for a moment she forgets her arousal, eyes pricking with tears of joy and tenderness and determination that Therese will _always_ feel that way. And then—

“I just wish that…”

Therese cuts off again. Carol swallows, and asks tentatively, “What do you wish?”

A long pause, Therese clearly weighing her options. When she speaks, her voice slides through Carol’s veins with a liquidity as warm and overwhelming as the most potent drug:

“I wish I could have returned the favor.”

Carol barely chokes off a whimper. The button on her slacks comes free. She slips underneath, cups herself over her underwear, remembering what it was like to touch Therese through her boxers. The heat. The dampness. Carol squeezes, just as she squeezed Therese, and this time she can’t prevent a soft, breathless sigh.

“Carol?” Therese asks, all gravel.

Carol’s voice is tremulous, “Yes?”

“I have to go back to work in a minute.”

_No. Don’t go. Talk to me._

“But… I was wondering if maybe you could… do something for me.”

Carol forces her hand to still. She says, “Anything.”

A long silence. Therese is clearly steeling herself, until—

“Will you touch yourself for me?”

Carol moans. Her hand slips inside her underwear and down to where she is already wet and silky. Her back arches off the headboard, her head pressing back against it, her body simmering with need.

“Will you?” Therese asks her again, and if she sounded shy and uncertain before, now there is just the faintest charge of authority in her voice, as intoxicating across hundreds of miles of distance as the taste of her mouth and the feel of her body and the way she whimpers and sighs—

“Yes,” Carol groans. “God, yes.”

She can hear the smile in Therese’s voice, pleased, a little smug. “Good. I’m going to think about that. Think about how gorgeous you are. I probably won’t be able to focus on a single drink I make. All my customers will be furious with me. Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Jesus, Therese,” Carol whimpers, can’t help herself. Her fingers slide inside. She clenches, burning all over. 

“Carol?” Therese draws out her name like the most decadent note in an expensive wine.

Carol’s fingers have started to move. She gasps, “Yes?”

Therese tells her, “Don’t stop… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And the call ends. Carol groans helplessly, and keeps going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly filler, but there's important plot stuff happening here, fyi.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What you've all been waiting for...

Therese gets home at 6:34, and practically runs up the stairs to her apartment, body charged with nervousness and anticipation.

She’s in the shower by 6:37. She’s out of the shower by 6:40. Thank God her hair is short enough and fine enough that she’s got it dried in less than five minutes. Naked, she hurries into her bedroom, throws open her closet, and stops short in a sudden panic of uncertainty.

What the fuck do you wear for something like this? What the fuck do you wear when you want to blow a woman’s mind but also just want to be naked with her as quickly as possible? Should she greet Carol in her bathrobe, nothing underneath? Should she go all out? Dress and makeup and lingerie?

Well, that will be tough. The closest thing she’s got to lingerie is a pair of lacy black boyshorts. She’s got a black bra but it’s been in the wash too many times, old and a little frayed along the band. _Damn it_.

Then Therese remembers the sight of Carol, braless, her hard nipples practically visible through the thin material of the white tank top.

Inspiration.

No bra. She finds a slinky gray blue button down in the back of the closet—silk, one of her rare indulgences. She shrugs it on but buttons only to the middle of her chest, observing the expanse of pale skin she’s left exposed. Yeah, okay, this could work. Sexy and smart but not too dressy. Jeans to go with it. But nice jeans, a gray wash, and _clean_ , thank God. Now. Shoes?

Therese looks helplessly at her shoe basket, all sneakers and loafers for work and one pair of funeral heels.

Okay, fuck shoes.

Therese finishes dressing and appraises herself skeptically. She’ll never be as elegant as Carol, never capture her statuesque grandeur, her goddess-like perfection, but… she looks good. And if the way Carol kissed her two nights ago, touched her yesterday morning, moaned for her on the phone last night, are any indication, then Carol definitely finds her attractive. _Wants_ her.

Therese flushes hot, looking at the clock. 6:53. Is Carol a punctual person? Always late? Therese hasn’t seen her enough times to know, and that thought produces a frisson of anxiety. There are so many things she doesn’t know about Carol. Little details that she can’t wait to figure out (favorite color, favorite food, favorite movie); important truths she longs to discover (childhood dreams; first love; secret fears).

And of course, the other things. Like how she looks naked. How she moves, naked. How she tastes. What she likes…

Her thoughts travel back to yesterday morning. Breaking up with Richard was more awkward than painful. Finding out he had been cheating on her impacted her much less than he seemed to hope it would. Maybe it was her muted, indifferent reaction that lead him to lash out with the only comment that _did_ hurt her—

“Well, I hope she likes fucking a dead fish, Therese, because you’re probably the most frigid girl I’ve ever met!”

That was her cue to leave, and as she’d taken the elevator downstairs, stunned by Richard’s vitriol, she was embarrassed to feel tears gathering in her eyes. Not because of him. She didn’t give a shit whether he had been bored by their sex life. No, what bothered her was the dread that he might be right—that _Carol_ would find her boring. That she would be too timid, too uninformed, too uninteresting to really please a woman like Carol. Suddenly, thinking about how Carol had touched her that morning, and how she had failed to reciprocate, filled her with dread. Had Carol been disappointed by her inaction? Offended, even? Did Carol think she was selfish and unimaginative?

And when they had sex for real—would Therese only compound those impressions? Stepping out onto the street, hurrying toward the nearest subway station, Therese had felt miserable with doubt.

Listening to Carol touch herself last night was a much-needed ego boost. Not only because it was one of the hottest fucking things she’d ever heard, but because it was _Therese’s_ idea. _Therese_ asked her to touch herself, _Therese_ coaxed her to keep going, Therese proved that she had an imagination and cared about Carol’s pleasure and wanted her to feel good. Every soft, needy sound Carol made was reassurance, was promise, was hope. 

But even so… it hasn’t squashed the fear of disappointing her. Therese has only had sex with three people, and while the first two weren’t nearly as bad as Richard, they also failed to produce any deeper emotion in her. And she never really felt like she knew what she was doing. Wondered if she was too shy and inexperienced. Carol is clearly the opposite of shy and inexperienced. She’s a woman whose mere presence _oozes_ good sex. How can Therese possibly compare to the no doubt long list of exciting experiences she has had?

 _Just relax,_ Therese tells herself nervously. _You’ll figure it out together. Carol will be patient with you. Gentle. She’ll show you—_

The buzzing at the door makes her jump a mile. She rushes to the box, pressing the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” Carol’s voice is breezily casual. A beat of silence. A second. “Wanna buzz me in?”

“Oh, yes! Third floor, apartment—”

“I remember,” Carol says dryly.

Flushing, Therese hits the building buzzer. She paces up and down her short hallway, calculating how long it will take Carol to reach her door. She checks the kitchen and the living room, both as clean as they were when she left this morning. Suddenly it occurs to her—will Carol have eaten? Should she have gotten food? Does she even have anything to drink in her fridge?

When Carol knocks, Therese stands for a long moment staring at the door. She doesn’t want to seem pathetically eager. She takes two deep breaths. Then a third for good measure. She walks slowly and calmly to the door, and opens it.

The Carol Ross who stands before her is the Carol Ross from her fucking dreams. Tall and lean and oozing confidence. Black cigarette pants and a fitted gray t-shirt. Hair in loose blonde waves and makeup pristine, with tasteful gold studs in her ears. But the real _pièce de resistance_ is her blue velvet blazer. So few women could pull this off, but Carol makes it look effortless. And the way her slow, perusing gaze snatches the air from Therese’s lungs—that is effortless, too.

“Hey, slow poke,” she drawls.

Therese says softly, helplessly, “Hey…”

Carol is holding a leather overnight bag in one hand, her other hand tucked in her pocket, and she’s smirking now, looking very pleased.

Therese snaps out of it enough to say, “Here, let me take your bag?”

Carol allows it, and with this task in hand Therese turns to carry it into the living room. Carol follows her, past her tiny kitchen on the left and past her bathroom and bedroom doors on the right. Therese places the bag on the couch, and when she turns around, her heart catches in her throat. Carol has stopped in the hallway. She’s gazing at the pictures on the wall. Therese’s pictures. Including the one Therese took of her, at the farm.

Frozen, Therese watches as Carol takes it in. She stands with both hands resting on one hip, head tilted and observing, serious, respectful.

Therese steps nervously closer, says meekly, “It’s not very good, I was rushed. I mean, I can do better.”

But Carol, still looking at the photograph of the farm, murmurs, “It’s perfect.”

That single word transports Therese from dread to joy. Warmth floods through her, eyes cutting away as she blushes. When she looks back, Carol’s eyes have shifted to her, and she’s smiling so warmly. She looks so… proud. Therese doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at her that way.

“You’re very talented,” says Carol. “I like the composition, the way you’re clearly using contrast. Do you normally work in black and white?”

Of _course_ Carol has intelligent things to say about her work. Therese beams. “Not always. But there was something about that shot. I thought you looked like a 1950s movie star. I wanted to capture that aesthetic.”

Color appears high on Carol’s cheekbones as she looks at the photo again. “Well,” she says, “you captured that aesthetic.” Then she looks at Therese, smiling slowly and running her eyes from her socked feet, up her torso (stalling on the open buttons of her shirt) and then to her face. The hunger in her eyes is muted, controlled—but it’s there. “You’ve got a bit of a 1950s aesthetics yourself, Ms. Belivet.”

Therese rolls her eyes bashfully. “Please don’t call me Audrey Hepburn.”

“Hmm,” Carol shakes her head. “No, not quite. More like a young Jean Simmons. Do you know her?”

“I—not really.”

Carol nods. “She was gorgeous.” Another beat. “Almost as gorgeous as you, Therese.”

Therese breathes in deeply and lets it out. Her eyes are locked with Carol’s; she couldn’t look away, even if she wanted to. Something has shifted between them, a ratcheting of tension, a thickening in the air as of storm clouds and heat. It occurs to Therese—she’s only known this woman for a couple of weeks. It shouldn’t feel like she’s been waiting her whole life to touch her. And yet it _does_ feel that way. It’s like she’s known Carol for years, but never had permission to get close. Until now. And now she can practically taste the weight and warmth of Carol’s parted lips, and she can hear her own heart beating with anticipation, and the silk shirt against her bare breasts is like a teasing premonition of Carol’s mouth—

“Therese,” Carol murmurs. Her eyes are blazing. Her body is tight as a spring. She asks, “Do you still want this?”

The question might have been confusing, but Therese knows intuitively what it means. Not an assertion of hesitation—but a desire to show Therese that nothing will happen that she isn’t ready for. The kindness of this is almost overwhelming. It makes her feel instantly, utterly safe, as she never felt with Richard, as she never could have felt with Richard. Because Richard isn’t Carol. And Carol is what she wants.

Therese moves toward her without answering. Her movement is the answer. Carol’s eyes flash; she steps forward, and then their bodies are sliding together. Therese crosses her arms behind Carol’s neck, pulling her down, and Carol smooths her hands onto Therese’s hips, pulling her in, and when they kiss, it’s as if Therese has finally found a home.

And God… Carol is _such_ a good kisser. Therese nearly giggles at the adolescent thought, but it’s true! Carol’s mouth is warm and soft, the pressure is perfect, the hunger is consuming—it gives permission, to Therese’s hunger. So Therese kisses her back, and parts her lips and moans with delight as Carol’s tongue flicks against her own. That little dart of velvet wetness spears her with need. She tightens her arms, pushing herself up against Carol. Carol’s hands slide down from her hips, onto her ass, and squeeze.

Therese mumbles against her mouth, “Can we…?”

And Carol nods into their kiss, “Yes—please—” and starts guiding them backwards, toward Therese’s room. She must have taken note of exactly where it is, for soon they are in the door frame, and then they are pressed against the door, and their kisses are deepening, quickening, their breaths heavy and urgent as Carol’s hands suddenly squeeze again, and lift.

And fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing Therese has ever felt. She remembers the sight of Carol’s biceps in that tank top. The sculpted muscle of her shoulders and back. All of her lean and strong, and she proves it now, as Therese’s legs lock around her waist and Carol carries her, effortless, into the dark bedroom. Therese has the wherewithal to swat the light switch, and the bedside light comes on in a soft glow. Therese was always relieved when Richard left the lights off. But tonight—she wants to _see_ Carol, tonight.

Carol lowers her onto the bed as carefully as if she was made from glass, and then slides on top of her, still kissing. The weight of her is incredible. Therese pushes at the shoulders of the blazer, and Carol helps her by shrugging it off. She hears the sound of Carol kicking off her shoes, and Therese reaches for her gray t-shirt, wanting to strip it from her. Suddenly Carol’s hands are on hers, moving them away, pressing them gently onto the bed. Therese whimpers. Carol smiles into her mouth.

“Patience,” she murmurs. Therese whines, but Carol keeps smiling, keeps gently holding her down. “I want to take my time with you, Sweetheart.”

Therese huffs with impatience. “Can you take your time while naked?” she asks.

Watching the lust darken Carol’s eyes is one of the most satisfying things Therese has ever experienced. When she reaches for Carol’s t-shirt this time, Carol doesn’t stop her—helps her slip it off over her head; starts pulling at the buttons of Therese’s shirt as Therese finds the zipper on Carol’s pants. She’s got it all the way down when Carol pulls the sides of her shirt apart—only to stop still and look at her with wide eyes. 

“Jesus,” Carol moans.

Therese shivers; feels her nipples harden under Carol’s gaze. When Richard stared at her breasts, there was something slack jawed and gross about it. But Carol’s eyes are running over her with a kind of dreamy awe, as if Therese’s body has enchanted her. Therese takes the opportunity for her own perusal, nearly swooning at the spread of Carol’s bare stomach, of her breasts contained in a simple maroon bralette, of her sharp collarbones and her long, exquisite neck. She’s so… _feminine_ , and Therese finds herself reacting to it as she never could have imagined, wanting to touch, wanting to feel. When their eyes inevitably meet again, Carol’s shine with something so much deeper, so much more incredible, than mere arousal.

Then Carol bends forward, and murmurs into her mouth, “I’ve wanted this so much…”

A shiver goes through Therese. “Really?” she asks, still amazed that a woman like would want—

Carol’s chuckle is low, sinful. “Yes. Really.”

Therese draws Carol’s head back so can look into her eyes. “Since when?” she asks. She knows she’s fishing, but she can’t care. She wants to know everything, and the thought of Carol being consumed with this desire makes her feel a little less embarrassed by her own desperate feelings.

Carol grins at her. “Hard to say. You snuck up out of nowhere, didn’t you? But definitely since you winked at me at the bar.”

Now Therese nearly preens with delight. She remembers Carol’s slightly flustered behavior as she asked for a glass of water. But Therese could never have guessed that this goddess of a woman would react to her so strongly. Therese kisses her sweetly, and admits, “When I looked up and saw you standing there I—God, I forgot how to make words. You were so beautiful, Carol, and I—I’d never reacted to anyone that way, before.” 

“What way?” Carol asks, eyes keen. She’s fishing, too.

“I wanted you,” Therese says. Carol’s lips part; her pupils dilate. “I didn’t even understand what was happening to me but from the moment I saw you, I wanted to touch you, to kiss you. I _wanted_ you.”

Carol’s eyes glow. Her hand drifts down Therese’s torso, teasing the skin between her breasts. Therese shivers.

“I want you _now_ ,” Carol says, pushing aside a few pieces of Therese’s hair, looking into her eyes with seriousness and desire. “Can I touch you?”

Therese swallows, shivers, wants to say yes but feels suddenly that she can’t go on until she tells her—

“I haven’t—” she breaks off. Carol frowns in concern and Therese blurts, “I’m—a little—”

At that the concern melts into tenderness. “It’s all right, Sweetheart,” Carol tells her. “I know this is new for you. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. We can go as slow as you need.”

Therese’s eyes widen at her misunderstanding. She insists, “No, I don’t want to go slow!”

Carol’s brows hike upwards, and realizing what she’s said, Therese blushes crimson. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to get herself under control, aware of the little rumbling chuckle of amusement from Carol. She opens her eyes again, breathes in and lets it out slowly. “What I mean is… I’m not nervous to be with you. It’s just been a really long time since anyone…” Carol frowns again, confused, and Therese squeaks, “since I was able to… to come. With someone. And yesterday, with you. It was… it was so good, Carol, it was—it was perfect. And I think I’m just… just afraid that…”

As soon as she says it, as soon as she sees Carol’s slow blink, Therese feels a flush of humiliation. Fuck, what is wrong with her? She’s not making any sense. Of _course_ Carol will be able to make her come. Carol barely touched her yesterday and it made her come harder than she has in months. So how can she explain that this feels different? That being naked with her, touching her, being touched by her with nothing between them, makes her worry—what if yesterday was a fluke? What if this time Therese can’t relax, can’t let go, can’t—

Then Carol says, “You didn’t come with Richard?”

Therese’s eyes cut away. She’s suddenly terrified she’s going to cry. She shakes her head, mumbles, “No, he… never, with him.” 

When she gets no response she chances a look at Carol again, and sees an expression cross her face that she can’t read. It soon vanishes, becoming a look, not of distaste or discomfort, but of sweetness and warmth. Therese nearly gasps with relief. Carol kisses her gently.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Can I ask your something?”

“Yes…”

“Have you found it difficult, in other situations? When you touch yourself, is it hard for you to come like that?”

Therese blushes, but Carol is so matter-of-fact and unembarrassed, that it’s impossible not to respond honestly, “No, I can always come like that. I mean, almost always, anyway. Unless I’m too tired.”

“I see,” hums Carol, her voice taking on a note that pierces through Therese’s embarrassment—that slides down her body and settles between her legs. A note of pleasure, of curiosity, of promise. “And are you tired now?” Carol asks.

The heat between her legs only intensifies, becomes an even stronger ache of need.

“No,” she says. 

Carol smiles. Slow and feline. “Well, then… I suppose yesterday could have been beginner’s luck. So do you mind… if I try again?”

Therese whimpers, overcome.

“No, I—I don’t mind.”

“Mmhmm,” Carol murmurs, brushing their lips together. Therese can feel the shape of her smile, gentle, and confident, and hungry. “In that case…”

And then she presses closer. Presses deeper. Therese’s mouth opens to her, and as Carol’s tongue slides across her own it’s like some barrier Therese hadn’t even known she was erecting comes down with a crash. She lifts up, kissing her back, nodding as she reaches for Carol’s loose pants and starts to push them down, over her hips, over her ass. She only gets about halfway down her thighs when Carol breaks their kiss, dipping her head to start mouthing at her neck. Therese shivers, arching, and Carol slides further down. She kisses between her breasts, kisses across her ribs, kisses her belly—all slow and perusing, like she wants to memorize her. Therese’s stomach flexes under her searching mouth, hips churning as Carol’s hand follows the path of her kisses. Nails pricks her skin. It’s torturously slow, tortuously indulgent.

“Please,” she whimpers. “Please.”

Carol moans against her belly button, says, “Don’t want to—to rush you.”

 _Rush any less and you’ll kill me,_ Therese thinks, weaving her hands into Carol’s hair. She pulls her back up. Kisses her hard. Drags her tongue up her jaw to the tender spot behind her ear. She nibbles her there, where her perfume is an intoxicating bloom, and goosebumps erupt under her lips. She follows their trail to Carol’s throat, and bites. Carol shudders, and her hips push forward, into the cradle of her thighs. Therese jerks at the pressure, moans with relief. She digs her fingers into Carol’s ass, and Carol rocks into her. Suddenly they are both panting for breath, but then Therese realizes that Carol still has most of her clothes on.

Fuck that.

She wraps her arms around Carol’s shoulders. She wraps her legs around Carol’s hips. Then, with all the strength in her small body, she rolls them over.

Carol squeaks in surprise. Suddenly Therese is sat astride her thighs, looking down at the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. Carol grabs at her hips, holding her steady, and Therese bends to her this time, sliding her tongue into her mouth for a slow, deep kiss that seems to go on for ages. 

When she pulls back, Carol’s eyes are practically black, her lips swollen. Therese inches down the bed, reaching for Carol’s pants that are still caught around her thighs. She takes note of a pair of high waisted maroon panties, perfectly matched to the bralette. She drags the pants down her legs and rises so that she can finish pulling them off. Then, standing beside the bed, she pushes her jeans down as well, socks, too, so that she is naked except for the lacy boyshorts. Where Carol’s eyes fasten, instantly.

“You…” Carol murmurs, and Therese is frozen waiting for her pronouncement. Their eyes meet again. Carol sits up, reaching for her. “Come here.”

Therese obeys. Crawls into her lap. Carol drags their mouths back together and Therese begs her, “ _Please_. Please, Carol, just—just _fuck me_.”

In a flash, she’s on her back, Carol surging over her, grabbing her arms, holding them above her head. Suddenly Carol’s mouth is on her chest again, sliding down, licking, biting her way to Therese’s breast. She licks once over a hard peak, and Therese whines and pleads, and finally Carol takes her nipple in her mouth, sucking. A sob shakes Therese’s body, sensation traveling like a lightning bolt to the throbbing mess between her legs. She locks her thighs against Carol’s hips again, thrusting forward in an effort to get closer. Carol finds her way to her other nipple, moaning against her as she releases her arms to grab her hips and drag her closer. The pressure hits Therese exactly where she needs it, and her head tips back. Her back arches; her body lifts up into Carol’s, wanting to be as close to her as possible, to be absorbed into her, a capillary action that will fuse them together.

Carol’s voice comes to her, a growling question, “What do you like?”

Therese drags her back up to her mouth, kissing her hard as their lower bodies push together, find a rhythm, rocking, rocking.

“Anything,” Therese gasps. She grabs at the band of Carol’s bralette, and Carol helps her to drag it over her head. She hardly has a moment to glimpse Carol’s full breasts before they are pressing down into hers, a warm and tantalizing weight that makes both women sigh. Therese urges her, “You—you can do anything, please—”

But Carol, sliding down again, sucking her nipples again, is apparently determined to kill her with consideration.

“Fingers?” she asks.

Therese shudders, nodding.

“Can I go inside you?”

“Yes, fuck—yes—”

Carol wrestles Therese’s boyshorts down her thighs; abandons her breasts to start moving closer and closer to where Therese has become a river of need.

“… Can I go down on you?” 

Just the thought sends heat lancing through her. Therese nods desperately, lifting her hips, and thank God Carol seems to understand this as permission. Because now Carol has gotten her underwear off, and Carol is kneeling between her legs, parting them, looking up long enough to send her an absolutely devious grin, and then Carol is—

“ _Fuck_!” Therese gasps, hands scrabbling. “Oh, fuck, fuck…”

She hears Carol’s sound of delight, feels the silky slide of that tongue against her, feels the gentle probing, the exploration, the long slow licks that make sweat bead on every inch of Therese’s shuddering body.

“Baby,” Carol groans, “You taste incredible.”

Therese presses the back of her wrist against her mouth; bites her hand and sobs. She always thought maybe she didn’t _like_ oral sex. Her reactions to it were always so flat; either it felt ticklish or it felt irritating or it felt like… nothing at all. But now, Carol puts her thighs over her shoulders and takes her into her mouth to lick and suck and somehow it’s gentle and ferocious at the same time. And it feels so. fucking. _good_.

“Carol,” she whimpers, “Carol, God—fuck—”

Carol experiments. Carol plays. Carol darts her tongue inside her and chuckles throatily at Therese’s answering gasp. She slides up from her opening, sucking at her lips on the way, reaching her clit with slow, testing strokes. Circles the tip til Therese almost screams. A moment later Carol has covered her with her mouth, suckling. If Therese was wet before, it’s like this suction has released a dam. Therese feels the wetness gathering on her inner thighs, gathering in Carol’s mouth, making everything slippery and warm and so good so good so good…

Carol uses gentle fingers to pull back the hood of her clit—tongues at the sensitive nerves and Therese shouts, fisting the sheets. Carol moans at her reaction, and the vibration of it is devastating. In a burst of shock and almost panic Therese’s realizes—she’s about to come. It’s only been a couple of minutes and already she’s—she’s—

“Carol—Carol, wait!”

Carol instantly pulls back. In the same breath, she’s crawling back up her body, reaching for her face, eyes full of worry and tenderness and—

“I’m sorry—God, are you okay? Did I—”

Therese grabs her before she can keep talking. She kisses her, breathless and overwhelmed. To her relief, Carol only hesitates a moment before relaxing into the kiss, kissing her back, deeply. In the past, Therese always avoided kissing anyone after they’d gone down at her. But Carol’s mouth is hot and slick and her tongue tastes rich and Therese isn’t ashamed.

“I’m okay,” she gasps, “I’m okay, I just—I just need—”

She doesn’t know how to say the words so instead she reaches for Carol’s hand. Takes and draws it down between her legs. Instantly, the latent concern in Carol’s eyes melts into understanding, fingers dipping into her wetness.

“Yes,” Therese gasps. “Yes, _that_. I want that. _Please_.” 

Carol dips lower, toys with her opening and then slips a single finger inside. Therese whines with need, and grabs her again, kisses her again. She can’t help it. She just wants to keep kissing her—forever. Carol cradles her jaw with her free hand and kisses her back. She drags her finger out and comes back with two, the fullness taking Therese’s breath away.

“Like that?” Carol asks.

“Yes—yes!”

Carol groans and nods and reaches deep, and then her fingers are moving, stroking, hooking against the front of her cunt where she is so swollen and sensitive that the merest pressure makes sweat break out across her skin. Therese wraps her arms around Carol’s shoulders, holding her close. Yes, this is what she needs. Carol close, like this. Carol covering her body. To be surrounded by her warmth. Surrounded by her rich and spicy and intoxicating smell. To be full with her fingers and full with her closeness and it’s—it’s—

“ _Don’t stop_ —”

Carol answers by rotating her wrist, laying her thumb against the cherry redness of Therese’s clit, that she starts to rub. Her fingers stroke and her thumb rubs and the combination makes Therese thrash beneath her.

“Does it feel good?” Carol purrs. Therese can only nod, her eyes squeezing shut, her head tipping back as a deep ache of pleasure starts to bloom outward. “Do you want more?”

She whimpers, and then a third finger is joining the first two, and the thumb on her clit presses a little harder, rubs a little faster. Her thighs start to shake. Her head starts to spin. There’s a sudden moment of crystalline stillness, like standing on the edge of a cliff looking out at eternity—and then she tips forward, and flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you're wondering about that blue blazer: 
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/bXp7P24)  
> 


	16. Chapter 16

Carol watches, awed, as Therese shakes apart in her arms. She can feel it happening, can feel the tension in Therese’s lithe, delicious body, can feel the pulsing of her sex around her fingers, wet and silky and dripping down her wrist. She wants to taste her again—wants to drink down the flavor of her orgasm, to swallow her whole and make her come again. God, she’ll never get enough. She’s already addicted to her, to every flexing inch of her. Her face like this is a picture of ecstasy and release, lips parted as she cries out, flush spreading from her chest, up her throat, to the height of her cheekbones.

By the time she starts coming down, Carol can feel her own wetness on her inner thighs. She’s practically clenching with want. Abby told her once about making love to a woman and getting so caught up that she came when the woman came, just from watching her. Carol thought this was bullshit. Now, she’s not so sure. She’s breathing almost as hard as Therese, and her thighs are trembling in a way they normally only do after she’s come, and deep inside she can feel the pulse of her own pleasure, like a heartbeat. Jesus Christ if Therese so much as _looked_ at her cunt right now, she’s convinced she’d go off like a rocket.

“Carol,” Therese whimpers, sounding both exhausted and elated, her gorgeous green eyes fluttering open, hazy with pleasure. “Oh, God… Carol.”

Carol grins, a full on, shit-eating grin of pride and delight. She lifts her thumb away from Therese’s clit and holds her fingers still. She doesn’t want to overstimulate her, but she’s not ready to pull out yet, either. She wants to feel this for as long as possible. She bends to press gentle kisses to Therese’s face—her eyebrow, and her temple, and the corner of her mouth and tip of her nose. That last one makes Therese giggle, the purest sound. Therese’s hands, which had collapsed limp at her sides a moment ago, lift to Carol’s face and draw her down into a deep, breathless kiss. When they pull apart, all Carol can do is stare at her.

Therese giggles again. “What?” she asks, but she doesn’t sound embarrassed.

Carol shakes her head. She blurts a little laugh and says in amazement, “What? _You_ , Angel. You’re what.”

Therese glows, dimples on display, eyes alight.

“I’m pretty sure _you’re_ what,” Therese tells her. Carol beams, and Therese giggles again.

Then, still smiling, she trails a hand down to Carol’s hand, and helps her gently to pull out. The little clench of her inner muscles, the way her eyelids flutter at the sensation, is almost enough to have Carol diving down between her legs again—but she decides to give her a break. A moment later she’s rewarded for her patience when Therese’s back arches—a long, catlike stretch that has their skin sticking warmly together. Therese groans, and there’s a pop as she rotates her neck, and they both laugh.

“Was that good?” Carol asks her.

A snort of laughter. Undignified but so delightful, and Carol can’t… stop… _grinning_.

Therese looks into her eyes with unrestrained adoration, saying simply, “Yes. That was good.”

And they both erupt with laughter, because good is far too tame a word for this. Carol feels almost jittery, consumed with joy over what they’ve shared, how different it feels, from anything in her past. She’s had plenty of sex, after all. Before she married Harge she slept with more than her share of women and men. During her marriage, she and Harge both had affairs, brief dalliances that they neither hid from each other nor asked each other to divulge (Abby was the only such affair that troubled their already troubled marriage, because Abby was something different).

It didn’t escape her notice, of course, that none of those affairs were with men, to whom she became less and less attracted as she got older. Sexuality being a moving target, and all that. Really, having the outlet of sex with women is probably one of the only reasons she and Harge stayed together as long as they did. Carol has always loved sex with women. Loved the softness of them, the curves of them; loved the way they taste and how they move. She has always taken satisfaction in knowing that she is good at sex, and always taken pride in her refusal to sleep with people who are selfish or inconsiderate in bed. And so, at the age of thirty-five, she can boast that she has had quite a lot of very good sex in her life.

But this… this…

Carol’s laughter fades to a smile that she can feel pouring out of her like music. Gazing down into Therese’s dilated eyes, seeing her dimpled smile and the sweetness of her face, Carol feels something happen in her chest. A sudden, almost bruising ache. But not of pain. No, what she feels is almost overwhelmingly _wonderful_.

“Carol?” Therese asks.

It’s only then Carol realizes that her stare has gone a little distant. But Therese doesn’t seem upset by it, only quizzical. She focuses on her again, and chuckles, suddenly nervous that the depths of her feelings are clear in her eyes. And it’s far too soon to be saying something ridiculous like _I lo_ —

“What are you thinking about?” Therese asks her.

Therese’s hands have slid around her again, and her fingers are trailing gently up and down her spine. Carol has shifted a little to the side, and now their legs are twined together. Carol’s heart thumps hard at the question. Not wanting to give too much away, she leans in again—deeply gratified by Therese’s soft intake of breath, just before they kiss.

“What am I thinking…” Carol mumbles against her mouth. “I’m thinking… how good you feel. How gorgeous you are. How delicious you taste.” Therese breathes in, fingers pressing against her back. “I’m thinking… I’m not done. Want to touch you again. Taste you again. See if my luck can hold out another, oh… two, three times.”

Therese’s pelvis pushes into hers, and Carol grins against her searching lips, and without further ado starts to meander her way down again. Over breasts and ribs and belly, toward the heavy and intoxicating fragrance that calls to her like a—

But suddenly, Therese’s hands are in her hair. Therese is drawing her back up again, in a manner that brooks no refusal. Surprised, Carol looks up to make sure she’s okay—and is totally unprepared for the devilish little smirk that greets her.

“I don’t think so,” Therese says.

Carol blinks.

“You’ve had your fun,” says Therese archly. “Don’t you think I deserve a turn?”

Carol blinks… again. A shiver travels through her limbs. Her lips part and after a moment she hears herself stammering like a fool, “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you—”

Therese’s low hum interrupts her. Therese’s fingers trail down, finding the edge of her underwear and slipping underneath, touching the bare skin of her ass.

“I’ve been doing some research,” says Therese.

Carol, despite her arousal, rolls her eyes, “I’m gonna kill Abby.”

Therese laughs, “Don’t! She was right. It was really helpful. I’d never read fanfiction before.” Therese lifts up to kiss her under her chin, a gesture of reassurance. Carol feels her frown melt away. When Therese’s scrapes her teeth town her throat, Carol’s heart starts beating like a drum. “Honestly,” Therese tells her, voice lowering, “I learned a lot.” Her voice holds dark promise, and Carol is suddenly too overcome to give more than a vague sound of inquiry. “I was so nervous all day, about this. Touching you, like this. Worrying if I’d do it right, you know?”

Carol doesn’t know, because Carol thinks that if Therese’s fingers get any closer to where she is pulsing and aching with need, then Therese will discover very quickly what it’s like to do it right.

“But then,” Therese goes on, conversational, lips still trailing along her throat and jaw, “I read some things and I realized that… touching you—it can’t be all that different from touching myself, can it? And I’ve done that, you know. I did that last night.”

Carol whimpers, head tilting back to give her more access. “You—you did?”

“Oh, yeah. As soon as I got home from work. After hearing you on the phone? Imagining you like that? How could I not?”

“Oh, Jesus…”

Now Therese is using both hands—to push Carol’s underwear down her hips. In sudden desperation, Carol helps her, both of them dragging the offensive garment down her thighs, past her knees, til Carol manages to kick them the rest of the way off and reach for Therese’s hand at the same time that Therese is reaching for her and— _oh—God—_

“Fuck,” Therese gasps, and her eyes at wide, and her lips are parted, and she is slipping delicately between Carol’s legs, an electric shock in every fingertip. “Oh, Carol…”

Carol’s only response is a weak sip of air, her hips canting forward as Therese’s touch goes from whisper soft to solid pressure. Carol has had sex with virgins before, and found that they either freeze, or do a lot of exploring; trying things out, wandering here or there, learning the lay of the land, as it were. It’s hot, of course it’s hot, to be on the receiving end of that first-time curiosity—but it also takes a lot of patience, especially when you’re turned on and just want to be touched the way you like.

Which is why it startles a yelp from her throat when Therese drags her fingers through her once, finds her clit with unerring accuracy, and starts to stroke. Her touch is precise, firm—and yet somehow gentle, her big green eyes gazing up into Carol’s with an expression of amazement.

“You’re so wet,” she whispers.

Carol blurts a laugh, overwhelmed, overcome, her back arching as she rocks forward.

“I—I—just made you come on my fingers for the first time. Of course I’m wet, Jesus, fuck, Therese—”

Therese’s eyes sparkle. “You liked it that much?”

“God, can’t you tell?”

A fiendish smile from the little minx, who’s now using just the tip of her middle finger to circle Carol clit’s, soft as a whisper, devastating as a tsunami. Carol, still half on her side, needs more, needs closer, needs—just a little more control. She lifts up and slides on top of Therese. She straddles her thighs, keeps her hips elevated enough that Therese can still touch her. She sets her forearms on either side of Therese’s head and seizes her mouth in a kiss of bruising force, their tongues wrestling, wet and starved. In this position she can rock forward into Therese’s finger, and it’s good, it’s so good, but it—

“Talk to me,” Therese says against her mouth. “Tell me what you like.”

Carol whines, gasps, closes her eyes and manages to eke out, “A little—a little—harder.”

Therese’s reaction is instant, the pressure from her skimming finger deepening in a way that makes Carol light up.

“Move your—move—up and down—up and down,” Carol gasps. And Therese obeys, and it’s perfect, just what she wants, just what she needs. “Yeah,” she says, “Yeah—”

“Like that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck, Carol, you’re so beautiful.”

The words cause a sharp throb to ripple through Carol’s body, just a hairsbreadth shy of orgasm. She’s rocking consistently now, riding the pressure of Therese’s touch, so close—

“Can I go inside you?”

A sob cracks in Carol’s throat. She’s close enough as it is, thinks penetration might be enough to kill her, but she wants it. She wants it so much. She opens her eyes, trying to focus on the beautiful woman gazing raptly up at her. She nods, and Therese’s eyes glitter—just before her fingers move away from her clit, and slip down. Moments later, two of those fingers have found her entrance and are pressing into her. No shyness. No hesitation. One moment she’s empty and the next she’s full.

“Yes,” Carol gasps, “Oh, that’s good, that’s good—”

Therese starts to move her fingers, crooking them in a slow, ‘come here’ gesture that feels like an earthquake inside. Where the fuck did she learn to do that? Carol grips desperately at the pillow on either side of Therese’s head, hears her beautiful young lover say in that maddeningly conversational voice, “I read that some women like it when you move like this, and others like it when you move like this—” suddenly her fingers stop stroking and instead zero in on the front wall of Carol’s cunt, massaging that tender, helpless spot inside her that makes her flood with wetness, makes her cry out with Therese’s teasing question whispered in her ear— “Which do you prefer?”

Oh, fuck she wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for Therese to _play_ with her like this. She imagined something so much more reserved, something she herself would direct, slow and careful and learning together, and pleasurable, of course, but that wouldn’t be the point. The point would be building Therese’s confidence.

Well, apparently, she doesn’t need help in that regard, for suddenly her other hand is slipping down between them, finding Carol’s abandoned clit. And then she is stroking her and rubbing her everywhere at once, and she is sucking on Carol’s neck like a vampire, and she is moaning against her, a vibration that travels down Carol’s whole body until—

She hits a spot, a perfect spot, a perfect complement between the fingers that are inside and the fingers that are outside and—

“There!” Carol gasps, sweat beading across her body as she tenses. “Oh, right there, God, don’t stop, please, please, baby, don’t stop—”

Therese’s teeth set against her collarbone. Therese bites. And just like that, Carol is coming.

There’s no metaphor that does it justice. It’s a detonation. It’s a flood. It’s a crashing wave that travels her entire body, it’s lightning that cracks pleasure from the depths of her sex to the top of her skull. It’s overwhelming and yet somehow easy. Deep and sweet, an entire chemistry lesson in dopamine and oxytocin and endorphins and as it starts to fade Carol finds herself laughing, helplessly laughing, because holy fuck Therese has broken her brain.

Therese, who is kissing and mouthing at what Carol suspects will be a pretty intense hickey on her collarbone, now hums with amusement, her fingers going still.

“That’s a fun sound,” Therese says drolly.

Carol laughs harder. She realizes that her head had tipped back in the moment of crisis, and now she tips it forward again, looks into Therese’s glowing eyes and bends to kiss her. Therese’s hands slip from between her legs, grabbing her hips and holding her tight as their mouths press and lick and melt together.

There are things Carol could say. Exultations. Profanities. Questions about what the fuck kind of fanfiction Abby recommended that taught Therese how to do _that_ —but language fades away with Therese’s kiss. What starts like a kind of joyful battle shifts by degrees to something deeper, slower, but no less passionate. More passionate, in fact, because every slip of Therese’s tongue against hers makes her heart thump with pleasure and joy and gratitude. She never wants this to end, never wants to stop kissing her, touching her, moaning and hearing her moan. And from the way Therese kisses her back, Carol thinks that her young lover feels exactly the same.

<><><>

It’s sometime later, while they are lying in a tangle of sweaty limbs (Therese has come again, Carol licking her into a violent conflagration), and the apartment is quiet around them and all they can hear are each other’s slow, even breaths—that Carol remembers.

“Shit!” she exclaims.

She’s as careful as she can be, extricating herself from Therese’s arms. Therese, her eyes heavy and sated, frowns in confusion as Carol gets up from the bed. She hurries to the living room, conscious of the chill air on her naked skin, calling back toward Therese, “I nearly forgot! Hold on!”

She unzips her bag, finds the item in question tucked inside, and with heart hammering from excitement, returns to the bedroom. She holds the gift behind her back, looking at Therese with a slow smirk.

“I got you something.”

Therese’s eyes widen. She sits up, the sheet pooled around her waist, and with her breasts exposed and her hair a wild mess, God—she looks incredible.

“What?” she says. “What do you mean you got me something?”

“In Buffalo. There was a shop next to the place where I got breakfast. I couldn’t resist. Close your eyes.”

Therese hesitates—she looks slightly uncertain, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. But at last, she closes her eyes. At Carol’s prompting, she holds out her hands. Carol approaches her slowly, nervously, and after taking a deep breath, places the box in her hands. Therese’s eyes blink open, looking down. She goes perfectly still. She doesn’t make a sound.

Carol swallows, coaxes her, “Open it.”

Therese still hasn’t looked at her, but now with slow fingers she tears the plastic seal, and then opens the box. Inside there is a mess of cables, bubble wrap, and instructions. Therese finds the relevant item at once, carefully wedging it out, and then unwrapping it. A beautiful Canon camera. She holds it between her hands, and looks up for the first time. Her face is incredulous.

“Oh, Carol…” she says, and looks at it again. Turns it over. Touches the lens and the buttons and the frame with a carefulness that is almost worshipful.

“It’s professional level,” Carol says, voice trembling a little, still not quite sure of Therese’s reaction. “The salesperson told me all sorts of things about it that I can’t remember now, but apparently she sold the same model to a photojournalist a week ago and I… well, you said you didn’t have a decent camera.”

“Carol, it… it’s too much. It must have been so expensive! You didn’t have to…”

Therese trails off, eyes still looking down, hands still exploring the camera in amazement. She sounds overwhelmed, almost anxious. Carol drops down onto the bed beside her, coaxing her to meet her eyes.

“Darling, listen to me,” she says. Therese hesitates, before finally obeying. Her big green eyes are bigger than ever. There’s a flush on her cheeks. Carol cradles her face. “I wanted to, all right? I know that it’s important to you to take care of yourself and pay your own way, but do this for me, will you? It’s a gift. Just a gift. I want you to have it.”

In answer, Therese leans forward, kissing her with a softness and tenderness that makes Carol’s blood sing. When she pulls back, for the first time, a smile spreads across her face. Not just a smile but a _grin_ , of vibrant excitement. A child on Christmas morning.

“Carol,” she beams. “It’s… it’s incredible. Thank you, I can’t—you’re amazing.” She kisses her again. “You’re so amazing.”

Her words light Carol up. They carefully set the box and the camera aside on Therese’s end table, and then Carol draws her down, into her arms. They lie on their sides, facing each other, Therese’s slim and naked thigh draped over her hip as they kiss. Carol is tempted to deepen it, tempted to let them get carried away again, but there’s something so sweet and happy in the way Therese touches her, and Carol doesn’t want it to end. She runs her fingers up and down Therese’s smooth back, glorying in the softness of her skin, and in the quiet between them.

After a while, sounding sleepy and content, Therese murmurs, “Do you have Rindy tomorrow?”

Carol toys with the ends of her dark hair, says, “No. Not til Monday.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Carol asks in return, “Do you work?”

Therese’s eyes are closed, but she smiles. “At 6:00. But I’m free til then.”

Carol feels a little flutter of excitement, but also nerves. _Ask her!_ she berates herself. _Stop acting like a pubescent middle schooler and just ask her if she’d like to—_

“Maybe I’ll take the camera out for a spin,” Therese murmurs. “Maybe Central Park?”

“Winter in Central Park?” Carol murmurs back. “It sounds heavenly. The perfect setting for a photographer.” Then, marshaling her courage. “Could I tag along?”

Therese’s eyes open, staring directly into hers, and there’s an amused smile on her lips, and a crinkle in her nose as she asks, “Wanna help me scout locations?”

Carol crinkles her nose right back. “I doubt I’ll be much use as anything but a rabid admirer.”

“Rabid,” Therese drawls. “How promising.”

She leans forward, taking Carol’s bottom nip between her teeth, nibbling. Carol lets her, nerves on fire, and after a moment she gets a slightly sharper nip. It makes her breath catch, and when Therese’s tongue replaces her teeth, soothing the bite with a few slow, teasing licks, Carol feels herself tremble with aching pleasure.

But she tries to keep her cool. She says, “Who knows? Play your cards right and you might even get breakfast out of it. There’s a great café down there. Waffles the size of dinner plates. I’ll take you.”

“Hmm. Rabid _and_ generous.”

“Think you could get used to it?” 

To her surprise, Therese pulls back to look at her again, and the sultry little smile is replaced by something infinitely more sweet.

“Get used to you?” she asks. “Never.”

Carol melts. _Damn it._ Felled by a cheesy line from a beautiful girl. Abby would be _so_ disappointed in her.

Perhaps unnerved by Carol’s silence, Therese says, “I don’t expect you to spend the whole day with me. You probably—”

“I would love to spend the day with you,” Carol interrupts. Therese’s eyes shine with happiness. Carol draws her closer, kisses her, says, “I want as much time as you can give me. I know you… I know school starts again this week. Who knows when I’ll see you again?”

She means it to be light, a joke, but as the words escape it suddenly occurs to her that this is actually true. Therese works full time. Will be in school full time. Carol lives in Jersey. Getting to each other’s homes takes an hour, easy. These are not insignificant obstacles. When Therese pulls back to look at her again, the small frown between her brows suggests that all this is occurring to her for the first time, too.

“I have Thursday off from work,” she says. “My last class ends at 2:00.”

Carol hesitates, admits, “I have Rindy.” Therese’s frown deepens, and Carol is quick to add, “You’re more than welcome to come to the house after class. Rindy would love to see you again. You could stay for dinner and… well, I could drive you back into the city the next morning.”

Therese considers. Says, “My first class is at 8:00 on Fridays. We’d have to leave your house really early. I can just get an uber to the train.”

“I don’t mind. I’m up by six most mornings anyway.”

Therese makes a horrified face, “Jesus, _why_?”

Carol laughs. She kisses Therese’s eyebrow, fondly, running her hands up and down her back. “God, you sound like Abby. It’s not by choice. Rindy is a bit of a fussy sleeper, worse since Harge moved out. When you’re used to your baby waking you up before dawn, it’s hard to get into the habit of sleeping in.”

Therese makes a little sound of concern, asks, “Has it been hard on her? The divorce?”

Carol pauses. She doesn’t generally like to talk about the divorce, or its impact on Rindy. She avoids the conversation with everyone, except Abby. And so she fully expects Therese’s question to lance her with defensiveness, to make her close off and change the subject. So she’s surprised, and a little unnerved, when no such impulse grabs her. There’s something so genuine and concerned about Therese’s eyes right now. It’s like when she showed her her workshop for the first time. So many others had treated the furniture restoration as an eccentricity. Therese treated it as a window into Carol herself.

Perhaps it’s that, knowing that Therese’s interest is genuine and respectful, that makes her feel safe enough to say, “Yes. It has been hard on her. It’s been hard on everyone, in different ways. I feel guilty sometimes, because it’s been the easiest on me.”

“Why does that make you feel guilty?” Therese asks.

“Oh, just… you know, Harge. He didn’t fight me on it, but he didn’t want it, either. He thinks it’s my fault for not trying harder. You know, therapy, that sort of thing. He doesn’t understand that by the time I finally asked for the divorce, it was far too late for therapy. Too late to try to make up for the past with sudden drastic measures. My mind was made up. We split custody of Rindy but when she’s with him all she wants is me and when she’s with me all she wants is for Harge to move home. He blames me for that, too.”

“But you must know that’s not fair,” Therese tells her, her lovely little face so earnest.

“I do, Darling, yes. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty. Especially when Harge and Rindy’s lives have fallen apart over it—and I feel like I’m finally getting mine back.”

Therese says nothing for several moments, pensive. One of her hands has slid up and is toying with a piece of Carol’s hair. She drags a finger down Carol’s jaw, searching her face for Carol knows not what. Then, with eyes just slightly averted, she says softly. “My mother had lots of boyfriends, while I was growing up.”

Something clenches in Carol’s chest. She has wanted to ask Therese more about her childhood, about her past, but felt like it wasn’t her place.

Therese says, “Those boyfriends were… not good people. They were abusive, controlling. Most of them hit her. But she never left any of them. She stayed with them and begged them to stay, right up until the moment they left her for good.” Therese swallows. She’s still touching Carol’s hair, still not meeting her eyes. She asks, “Was Harge… did he ever?”

“No, Angel,” Carol says gently. “He was controlling, yes, but it never got him what he wanted. Which is probably a big part of why our marriage failed. I wasn’t what he wanted me to be. But he never laid a hand on me, or Rindy.”

Therese gives a short nod, though there remains a little bit of tension in her jaw. She says, “I realize then, that what happened to my mom… it doesn’t really compare. But I guess… I always wished she’d had the strength not to be with those men. I always wished she knew how to get away from them. For most of my life I thought that no relationship could be good, because relationships were just about people hurting each other and refusing to leave. Rindy may not understand it, now. But I think someday, she’ll realize—you wanted to be happy. And that was more important than keeping Harge happy. I think someday she’ll understand, Carol. And she’ll be grateful to you.”

Carol is too stunned to speak, her eyes burning with sudden tears. She thinks of her own mother, who stayed with the same man right up until the day she died. Stayed with him through alcoholism and gambling binges and affairs, and hated him with a vengeance that Carol still thinks sometimes she can taste in her memories. She realizes suddenly that she, too, spent most of her life thinking that no relationship could be any better than that. Perhaps it’s why she stayed with Harge so long…

A tear leaks out from the corner of her eye. Therese brushes it away, without fuss. Their eyes meet, and something deep and powerful and important passes between them.

“I think I’m in trouble,” Carol whispers.

Therese’s cheeks flush pink. Her eyes dart nervously away, a shy smile curving her lips. When she looks back again, Carol’s heart is in her throat.

“Me, too,” Therese whispers back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday!


	17. Chapter 17

Therese’s last class on Thursday ends at 2:00. She rushes home, packs an overnight bag, and is on her way within half an hour. She takes the train out to Jersey, and then an Uber to Carol’s house (Rindy is napping). Stood before the grandeur of the giant front door with its lions head knocker, she is momentarily intimidated. The last time she was here, she left under painful circumstances. She still remembers the misery she felt, standing out here with Carol, neither of them talking, as they waited for Therese’s ride to pick her up.

 _But this is different,_ Therese tells herself. _It’s different because now she knows. And you know. And you’ve missed her more this week than you’ve got any right to, so stop panicking and get in there!_

She breathes in deep, and knocks.

It’s about five seconds before she hears the sound of feet inside the house, measured steps, and then the door opens carefully. Stood before her is Carol—with Rindy in her arms. The child has her head resting on Carol’s shoulder, some kind of stuffed animal clutched in her arms. Carol is gently rubbing her back.

“She just woke up,” Carol explains, voice low and soothing.

When Therese imagined this reunion, she pictured Carol flinging open the door. Eyes locking in an instant. Throwing themselves at each other in desperation to erase four days apart. But seeing Carol like this, her daughter in her arms, her face soft and her smile sweet—Therese feels no regret. Just a kind of amazing gratitude, that she gets to see this.

“Hi, Rindy,” Therese says, quiet and gentle, not wanting to startle her when she’s just woken up. “Do you remember me?”

Rindy gives her a pensive look. Carol says, “Come in, Sweetheart, come in.”

Every time Carol uses a pet name with her, Therese thinks she’s going to die of happiness. She walks into the foyer, setting down her bag and pulling off her coat at Carol’s urging, all while Rindy continues to watch her. Carol kisses her daughter’s head, murmurs something to her that Therese can’t hear. Rindy’s eyes light up, though she remains snuggled into her mother. 

After a moment she asks in a sleep-scratchy voice, “Do you want to watch Thomas?”

Therese repeats curiously, “Thomas?”

“Thomas the Tank Engine,” Carol explains, eyes twinkling. “Someone has been very interested in trains since Christmas.”

Therese’s heart melts.

A few minutes later, Rindy is curled up on the couch, Therese sat beside her, and the first episode of the children’s show is on. Carol, who has just run a hand through Rindy’s hair, looks at Therese. “I’ve just got to get some things prepped for dinner?” 

“It’s fine,” Therese smiles. “I’ve got her.”

For the first fifteen minutes or so, Rindy is quiet, blinking slowly, still waking up. But then she starts to get her energy back, occasional remarks about the show soon segueing into a full-blown play-by-play for Therese’s benefit, complete with character assassinations and plot theories that would have Therese in stitches if she weren’t trying so hard to be a very serious audience.

After the first episode Rindy asks tentatively for another. Therese hits play, and they settle in again.

But soon after:

“Trez?” asks Rindy.

“Yes?” Therese asks.

A long pause. “Do you like apple juice?”

Therese schools her expression. “Yes, I like apple juice.”

“Do you like… animal crackers?”

“I _do_ like animal crackers.”

“Do you think…” another pause, “…maybe… we could have some animal crackers?”

“With apple juice?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I don’t know. But what do you say I go find your mommy and ask her, huh?”

“Okay!”

In the kitchen, Carol is wearing an apron and chopping up vegetables and chicken. There’s an Instant Pot on the counter, clearly waiting to be filled. She looks up immediately at Therese’s entry, and the two of them just stare for a moment. Therese realizes with a shock that she’s been here for almost forty five minutes, and she hasn’t even touched Carol yet.

“Um… Rindy wanted to know if she could have some apple juice and animal crackers.”

Carol, who has been staring at her with an expression best described as a _hungry_ , blinks.

“Oh,” she says, “Uh—yeah, of course. Here, let me just—”

“Carol,” says Therese.

“Yeah?”

Carol’s cheeks are pink, her eyes bright. It charges Therese with confidence.

“Come here,” she says. 

A moment later, and she’s in Carol’s arms. A moment later, and Carol is kissing her. She whimpers softly, pressing close. Carol takes her by the hips, turning her and holding her against the kitchen island. Therese weaves her fingers into the thick gold of Carol’s hair, kissing her harder.

“Missed you,” she mumbles against her lips.

Carol nods, slides her tongue inside, a warm and silky caress before she mutters, “Me, too. Me, too.”

Therese grins against her, pushing her hips forward, into Carol’s pelvis. “Kept hoping you would show up at the bar with Abby.”

Carol groans, “I had Rindy all week. I wanted to, believe me.”

“It’s okay,” Therese soothes her. “I’m here now.”

“Yes, you are,” Carol hums, kiss growing deeper, mouth hungrier, devouring. Therese sips for breath, overwhelmed by the intensity of Carol’s kisses, and the surge of her own desire. Carol says, “You’re here. And you feel… incredible.”

Therese is just about to stumble through something that amounts to, ‘Ditto,’ when Carol’s hands slide down her hips, hook behind her thighs, and lift her. Suddenly, Therese is sat upon the kitchen island, stunned and aroused. Carol, standing between her open legs, starts kissing her jaw, her throat, her collarbones.

Therese gasps, a sharp sound of pleasure and nerves. “Carol,” she hisses, “Rindy is—she’s expecting—animal crackers. She might come in.”

“She’s fine,” Carol mutters, nuzzling into Therese’s neck, kissing, and then sucking.

“No—no marks,” Therese gasps, “I’ve got class tomorrow.” 

A grumble, but Carol relents, returning to her mouth to kiss her, deep and needy. “I’ve wanted you all week,” Carol tells her, arms holding her close. Therese throws caution to the wind, wrapping her legs around Carol’s hips and locking them behind her. Carol growls with pleasure, licks into her mouth. “Wanted to taste you.” Therese shudders. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how good you taste.”

“ _Fuck_ , Carol.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly.”

“What’re you gonna do if Rindy comes in here?”

“What’re you gonna do if I make you come without touching you again?”

“You are a menace. You are menacing me.”

A rich, delighted laugh from Carol. Another deep kiss. But then, slowly, she relents. Their lips part, both of them leaning back enough to look at each other, to find identical grins on each other’s faces. Therese feels like she’s glowing from the inside. They stare at each other for several moments, lost in the pleasure of nearness, after four days apart.

“Hi,” Carol says, as if they are greeting each other for the first time.

Therese runs her hands down Carol’s arms, tangling their fingers together as she blushes and says it back, “Hi…”

“Did you bring your camera?” asks Carol.

“I did. Why?”

“There’s a lot of pretty country around here, and Rindy needs to spend some time outside. Once I get all this in the Instant Pot, I thought maybe we could bundle up and take a walk. You could take some pictures.” She pauses, eyes cutting shyly away. “I liked watching you work, last week…”

Therese’s glow only deepens inside her. She gazes happily at Carol, thinking of the Sunday they spent together last weekend. It was… God, it was one of the best days of Therese’s life. After making love late into the previous night, they slept past ten. Carol was adorably baffled at herself for not waking up sooner. Therese distracted her with a hand between her legs, slow, exploratory touches that soon had Carol’s sleep-rumpled body rolling and twitching and gasping for more, til she came with such a shout that Therese felt it ringing inside for days.

After that, waffles. And then, a long meander in Central Park, that ended with them popping into a café to warm up and get coffee, before finally catching a cab back to Therese’s apartment. The whole time, Therese had her camera, which has turned out to be a miracle of a machine, and not just because it takes the most perfect pictures Therese has ever seen—but because now she has a whole slew of photos of Carol.

Therese murmurs, “I’d like that… so long as I can take pictures of you.”

Carol rolls her eyes, though she looks pleased. “I suppose I can accept that condition, you little paparazzo.”

“Nice use of the singular paparazzi.”

“I’m very highly educated.”

“In various useful fields.”

Carol looks momentarily confused, but Therese waggles her eyebrows, and she blushes. Therese is certain then that they are thinking of the same thing: their return to her apartment Sunday afternoon. Tearing through the front door in a flurry of hands and kisses and clothes abandoned in the hallway…

It’s in the midst of these very pleasant memories that they hear the unmistakable slap of little feet running toward the kitchen, Rindy shouting, “Mommy!”

Carol steps back. Therese hops off the kitchen island. They’ve barely put two feet between them when Rindy charges in.

“The episode is over! Can I have animal crackers? Trez likes animal crackers, she said so.”

As close calls go, it’s a doozy.

Twenty minutes later, after a juice box and a handful of animal crackers, they’re swaddled in winter gear, and trudging down the sidewalk toward a nearby park. Carol tries to hold Rindy’s hand at first, but the little girl declares that she wants to walk with Therese, and that’s how Therese finds herself clutching a little mittened hand and listening raptly to an impassioned description of the best parts of the park.

Once they arrive, Rindy tears off toward the playground, Carol calling after her, “Stay where I can see you, sweet pea.”

Both hands now free, Therese immediately brandishes the camera.

It turns out that Rindy Aird is just as photogenic as her mother. She runs and jumps and laughs and plays and she may be the cutest thing Therese has ever seen. With Carol beside her, it’s impossible not to show her every snap she takes, and Carol’s eyes shine. It’s clear how happy she is, not just at Therese’s joy in the camera, but at her reaction to Rindy. This makes Therese shy and pleased. She has always gotten along with children, but rarely felt the draw to them that she feels toward Rindy. Is it simply because she’s Carol’s daughter? Therese doesn’t know, and doesn’t overanalyze it. She watches as Rindy starts gathering up some icy snow on the ground, packing it into a snowball with a very serious look of concentration. Therese snaps the picture. She shows it to Carol.

“You’ve got an incredible eye,” Carol says.

Therese chuckles, “Well, if you just take as many pictures as possible, you’re bound to hit on some good shots.”

A scoff. “Don’t undersell yourself, Therese. You concentrate on every picture you take, I see you do it. In ten minutes you’ve taken better pictures of Rindy than I have all year. You’re really talented.” A pause, a lowering of her voice. “And I’m not just saying that to get into your pants.”

Therese looks at her, grinning with her tongue between her teeth. “It would be an unnecessary effort. You’re getting into my pants anyway.”

Carol’s eyes glitter, her surprise and pleasure manifesting in a naughty smile.

“Good to know. But stop deflecting. You’re good, Therese. Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, taking it up more seriously?”

Therese frowns. She feels suddenly caught between the deep pleasure of Carol’s admiration, and an anxious uncertainty about where this is going.

“I don’t know what you mean. It’s a hobby. I take it seriously as a hobby. I’m not gonna drop out of school to become a photographer.”

“I don’t mean that, I just mean…” Carol trails off. She’s watching Rindy explore the jungle gym, and there’s a pensive look on her face that Therese knows isn’t for her daughter. Finally, she looks at Therese again. “There are all kinds of local programs. Community classes. Photography clubs. Contests. I wonder if you’ve ever considered that sort of thing.”

Therese, still frowning, thinks for a moment. She finds Carol’s brilliant focus a little intimidating, so she looks down at her camera on the pretense of scanning through her most recent shots. She marvels again at the sharp clarity of the images.

“I don’t know when I’d have time, Carol. Between work and school and… When I was with Richard he always complained about how little time we got together. I never did anything about it because I didn’t care about him enough to do anything about it. And now… with you…” Therese hesitates. She doesn’t want to say too much, give too much away. After all, she and Carol haven’t spoken about what they are, and while she’s certain Carol cares about her, she doesn’t want to overstep. She says timidly, “If I tried to add anything else to my schedule, I don’t think I’d ever have time to see you. I don’t want you to resent me for being busy.”

Carol takes a step toward her, murmuring, “Sweetheart…”

Therese looks up at her, meeting her eye. She didn’t plan to have this conversation today but maybe there won’t be a better time. She steels herself and tells her, “Carol, I’m in grad school for another year and a half, and next year I’ll have a teaching assistantship. I’m busy all the time. Even coming out here today meant I had to double up on getting my work done yesterday. There will be days I can’t afford to do that. There will be weeks we may only see each other once. I just want you to… I want you to know I understand if it’s not… well… the sort of thing you’re—”

“Therese,” Carol interrupts her rambling, gentle but firm. “Just take a breath, okay?”

Therese feels an unexpected and very unwelcome heat gathering in her eyes. She’s surprised when Carol takes the camera out of her hands, placing it in her purse and placing her purse on the ground before she puts her hands on Therese’s hips. Therese’s eyes widen. She glances nervously toward Rindy, afraid of what the child will think. Carol doesn’t move any closer to her, doesn’t hug her or kiss her, but even this much contact, in such a public space—it’s more than she expected. It _means_ something.

“Listen to me,” Carol tells her, looking completely unaffected by the statement her actions make. “You’re not the only one whose responsibilities will get in the way of us seeing each other. I’m working with a complicated custody schedule, trying to grow a business, and raising a daughter. I’m not going to lie and say that the prospect of only seeing you once a week doesn’t bother me. But what you should take from that, Darling, isn’t that you’re disappointing me. What you should take from it is that I _want_ you.”

Therese’s heart leaps into her throat. She stares up at Carol, overwhelmed by the riot of joy and hope going on inside her, incapable of saying or doing anything because she is so happy she can’t think straight.

“Look,” Carol continues. “We’ve known each other for less than a month. We’ve been…” she hesitates, looking uncertain for the first time, “We’ve been… whatever we are…”

Even moments ago, Therese would have quailed at the risk of offering any definition, but suddenly she hears herself say, “Together.” It jumps off her tongue, easy as breathing. Carol’s instant look of relief gives her the courage to add, “We’ve been together… for less than a week.”

“Exactly,” Carol says, a dusting of pink on her cheeks that Therese reminds herself could just be the cold. Carol clears her throat, going on, “So you see it won’t… it won’t hurt us to take things slow, will it?”

 _I don’t want to take things slow_ , thinks Therese rebelliously. _I want to be around you all the time. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you every day._

She keeps this to herself, answering simply, “No, it won’t.”

“Now,” says Carol, with a no-nonsense authority that Therese finds distractingly attractive. “What I propose is that we keep lines of communication open. Seeing each other will be an adjustment, for both of us. And not just because of your school or where I live. Jesus, I mean,” she blurts a little laugh that sounds slightly self-conscious. She looks down at the ground. “I haven’t even… you know, we haven’t even talked about how you’re feeling… about… about being with a woman.”

She keeps her eyes averted. Her hands shift restlessly before digging into her pockets. Therese thinks she is the most adorable woman in the world, and she smiles.

“No, we haven’t,” she says. “But let’s settle that right here and now. I’m feeling great about it.”

Carol, still looking down, smirks in a very pretty way, finally meeting her eyes again. “I’m glad,” she says. “But even so, it may be something that we have to talk about. How it feels, to be in the world like this.” She gives Therese a serious look. “You can talk to me, all right? Don’t be afraid of scaring me off. I want you to—I want _us_ to… to talk to each other.”

This is one of those bewitching times when Therese is struck by the fascinating contradiction of Carol. On the one hand, she is all ease and confidence, full of authority and head-held-high sophistication.

But underneath the well-placed words and the commanding tone, Therese does not mistake the note of vulnerability in Carol’s face and posture and voice. Her micro-expressions speak of bygone hurts and lingering fears. Her words have the careful measure of one who has been disappointed in this area, before. Therese wonders about it. Even with only ten years between them, she knows they are from different generations. She knows that even that much time has made a significant difference in how queer people are received in the world.

Therese makes a note to ask her about it more, and soon. For now, she glances toward Rindy (happily preoccupied in her play), and then reaches for Carol’s hand, tugging it out of her pocket so that she can lace her fingers with hers, and squeeze.

“All right,” she says. “I promise to talk to you.”

Carol looks down at their hands, unmistakably pleased. She says after a moment, “I want to kiss you right now, but…”

Therese beams. She squeezes her hand again and lets go. “Best not risk it,” she says.

As if to champion their self-control, Rindy shouts, “Mommy, I want to do the swings! Come push!”

Carol blows a breath out through her nostrils, clearly still preoccupied with wanting that kiss.

“She wants to do the swings, Carol,” Therese teases. “Better hurry up. I need some photos of mother and daughter.” 

<><><>

Therese will always think of that afternoon and evening as perfect. Being close to Carol, getting to know Rindy better, having dinner with them both—it’s just… perfect. And knowing that Rindy will be in bed soon, and then she’ll have Carol to herself? Well. That’s the most perfect thing of all.

But all that perfection goes to the dogs when, just as soon as Carol comes downstairs from putting Rindy to sleep, just as they are looking at each other across the expanse of the living room, eyes alight with anticipation—someone knocks on the door.

Knocks, and without waiting for an answer, comes inside.

Even without Carol’s reaction, Therese would know that this is Hargess Aird. He’s wearing an expensive suit, hair slicked back. He’s got some kind of toolbelt carried awkwardly in one hand, and he exudes in just three seconds the arrogant, presumptuous air of so many men Therese has waited on at The McKinley. Standing in the living room, Therese is not in his immediate line of sight. That honor goes to Carol, who has just come down the stairs from Rindy’s room, and who exclaims with fire in her eyes—

“Harge, Jesus! What are you doing here?”

Harge comes to a standstill, glaring up at her, brandishing the tool belt. “What do you mean what am I doing here? I texted you yesterday that I was coming to fix the sink.”

Carol gives him an incredulous look, and then says in a carefully measured tone that nonetheless fails to conceal her exasperation, “And I texted you back that I fixed the sink last week.”

Harge scoffs. He fishes out his phone and scrolls through it, before eventually, clearly finding the message in question. Rather than being cowed, he only scoffs again, pocketing the phone. “Well, I didn’t see it. I’m sorry, Carol, but you could have called.”

“ _I_ could have called?” Carol retorts. “ _You_ could have called before just coming over here and walking inside without asking! You scared me.”

“Carol, it’s my house, too, I have a right to be here.”

“No, you don’t. We agreed I would keep the house and you would keep the apartment. Do you see me just barging in there whenever I feel like it?”

“I don’t know why you have to treat me like a damn pariah—I’m only trying to help.”

Carol’s nostrils flare. She looks angrier than Therese has ever seen her, and Therese wishes suddenly that she could disappear into the floor. That feeling only compounds when Carol glances past her ex, catching Therese’s eyes in what Therese interprets as an attempt to wordlessly apologize. The problem is, Harge sees it, and turns. Suddenly, Therese is on the receiving end of a disbelieving, slack-jawed stare; when he closes his mouth, it’s with the definitiveness of one who has made a very unflattering determination.

“I didn’t realize you had company,” he says, voice artic, eyes on Therese.

“Well, I do,” answers Carol.

A few moments of silence pass, and Therese fights like hell to hold the older man’s stare. Ordinarily she would drop her gaze, slip away, employ any number of survival strategies she’s learned when in the face of aggressive, posturing men. But Therese will be damned if she does that now. Therese knows a pissing contest when she sees one, and however chauvinistic it might be, where Carol’s concerned—she’s not gonna lose.

“And who are you, exactly?” he demands.

Carol snaps at him, “Harge, don’t be rude.”

“I’m Therese Belivet,” Therese replies, still looking him straight in the eye.

“And how do you know my wife?”

Carol, looking like she wants to murder him, says, “We met at the holiday market. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Harge looks at Carol, then back at Therese, and then back at Carol. “Kinda young, isn’t she?”

“Harge, go home,” Carol growls.

He sneers at her, says, “You know, all these years of you fucking women behind my back, you at least had the decency not to bring them around our daughter!”

The shock strikes Carol’s face like a blow; her eyes widen. She goes pale with disbelief. Taking advantage of her stunned silence, Harge whirls on Therese, “And you,” he snaps. “Did you know the divorce isn’t finalized yet? Whatever she’s said to you, she’s still my wife.”

“Harge!” Carol cries.

It’s obvious that she can’t think what else to say. It’s obvious that he has delivered the perfect blow to dismantle her. But Therese is not dismantled. Fury rises in her, fury at his vitriol and cruelty. She doesn’t bat an eyelash, just informs him, calm and cold, “Maybe you’re still married, Sir. But she’s _definitely_ not yours anymore.”

This time _his_ eyes widen, so startled that when he opens his mouth, no words escape. Carol, too, seems not to have expected this from her. The difference is that Therese’s words appear to puncture her shock, and something new enters her eyes—a glitter of pride. Charged with its power, Therese holds her head high, and doesn’t break Harge’s disbelieving stare.

When he finally recovers his voice, he turns on Carol, blurting a laugh of contempt. “First Abby, now this. I guess you like them bold, huh Carol?”

Carol has her voice back, too, hissing at him, “Harge, if you don’t leave right now—”

“I’m going!” he snaps, but points a finger at her. “This conversation isn’t over! I’m Rindy’s father, and I don’t want her meeting every _fuck_ you bring home!”

“Get out!” Carol snarls.

He does, storming toward the door with a last furious look at Therese. It’s a look so potent with disgust that she feels as nauseated as if he’d _breathed_ on her. These are the moments when Therese can sense a panic attack lurking at her periphery, amorphous and sinister, ready to strike. As Carol follows behind him, as if to prevent him from doubling back, Therese watches their progress hawkishly. She’s unable to shake a burgeoning unease. It’s so easy to imagine—Harge spinning around, swinging out, striking hard. Therese finds herself wanting to shout at Carol, _‘Don’t get too close to him. He’s not safe!’_

Because he’s not safe. Therese can tell. He may never have hit Carol before, and perhaps he never will hit a woman at all, but he reeks of entitlement and disdain, and Therese has seen this script play out so many times.

Moments later, and he’s out the door. Carol shuts it firmly behind him, locking the deadbolt, and then a heavy duty barrel bolt at the top of the door, which Therese is relieved to realize will stop Harge, even if he has a key. When all this is in place, Carol stands a moment with her back turned, hands braced upon the door. Therese feels a new thread of anxiety—anxiety of a different sort, fear that Carol will want her to leave—

Then, Carol turns around. Her expression is still shocked, is mortified and even ashamed. Suddenly, she is striding toward Therese in furious determination. Therese’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t flinch—and a moment later, Carol is pulling her into her arms.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Carol whispers against her. “I’m so sorry, Therese.”

For the first time in five minutes, Therese breathes a sigh of relief. She wraps her own arms around Carol’s waist, letting herself be tugged closer.

“I—I—I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Carol says. Her voice is shaking. “He’s never acted like that before. He can be an asshole, but—are you all right? I’m so sorry, did he—”

“Carol,” Therese soothes her, hands running up and down her back, unnerved by the hard tension in her body. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I had to meet him eventually.”

“But not like that!” Carol exclaims, pulling back to look into her face with eyes that are full of distress and damp with tears. She looks almost panicked, and she’s still pale. “I would _never_ have let it happen like that. Fuck, I should have known when he didn’t text me back that he never saw the message. I should have anticipated this. I’m so sorry—”

“Carol!” Therese interrupts again, gently but firmly. “Carol, listen to me. You’re about to start hyperventilating. Can you just breathe for me, please?”

“I—I—”

“No, no talking. Breathe.”

Carol gives her a slightly exasperated look, but then she obeys, breathing exaggeratedly in, and letting it out. Therese gives her an encouraging nod, and Carol seems to realize that she needs this after all. She repeats the pattern, three, four times, her body slowly relaxing, though there’s a tremor in the hands that rise to cup Therese’s face. Her tears overflow, and she pulls Therese to her again, wrapping her close.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again. She sounds calmer now, but still so upset. “Darling, the way he treated you—I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Are you all right? I know that men… sometimes… and with your mother—”

She seems not to know how to broach the subject, and yet that she has this insight at all takes Therese by surprise. She wasn’t expecting it, nor was she expecting the strange combination of gratitude and anxiousness she feels as a result. That Carol cares enough to mention it fills her with joy. But that Carol recognizes the need makes her feel vulnerable, exposed. She swallows and presses her face under Carol’s chin.

“Thank you,” she says. “But I’m fine. I promise I’m fine..”

“If he ever talks to you like that again I swear to God I’ll punch him in the throat.”

Therese blurts a nervous laugh, releasing some of her own tension. When Carol pulls back to give her a look that says she is dead fucking serious, Therese smiles. “My hero,” she smiles. “But I can’t have you bruising those beautiful hands.”

Carol laughs, too, but Therese thinks it sounds a little watery, and the tension hasn’t bled from her body completely. Therese says, “I need to know if you’re okay, Carol. He was so…aggressive. It must have frightened you.”

Carol scoffs, wiping her eyes. “Believe me, Darling, Harge doesn’t scare me. I was more afraid that—that—the things he said—he might have scared you off.”

“Carol,” Therese says, gentle but reproving. “I’m a lot tougher than that. Your asshole ex isn’t a reflection on you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Carol nods, as if she wants to believe it but still isn’t sure. She trails her hands down Therese’s arms, and locks their fingers together. She stares and their linked hands for a moment, clearly building up to something.

“Therese, I—I need you to know something.”

Therese frowns, nods. “Okay.”

“I need you to know that I—I’m not going to cheat on you.”

Therese blinks. This was… not what she expected. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her, and yet when Carol chances a look into her eyes, she is radiating shame. “I had affairs while I was married,” she says. “Harge and I both did. You could almost call it an open marriage, except for the part where we never tacitly agreed to it. We just… let it happen, and _I_ let it happen, but—you have to know. That’s not… that’s not what I want with you, Darling. I don’t want you to think that I would just—”

“Carol,” Therese is losing track of how many times she’s had to interrupt her. This time, when Carol meets her eyes, she looks nervous, almost afraid. It breaks Therese’s heart. “Please listen to me. I _trust_ you. I know that whatever happened with Harge is different from this, just like what happened between me, and Richard was different from this.”

She remembers Christmas Day, when she almost fucked Richard in his childhood room. _That_ felt like cheating—like cheating on Carol, who her body and heart had already decided was hers.

“I trust you,” she says again. “Nobody is scaring me away.”

The way Carol looks at her—the way her fear dissolves, becoming within moments a radiant bloom of hope and longing—it makes Therese feels breathless with joy. When Carol finally, slowly smiles, it’s beatific, sweet and hopeful and moved. And then, with all those feelings in her face, Carol leans down, and kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of ya'all were asking where the angst at? 
> 
> Yeah, there's gonna be plenty of angst. But also, from here on out, lots of smut. What can I say? After that long, slow burn... I'm feeling hungry.


	18. Chapter 18

She means it to be a simple kiss. An affirmation and apology, a reassertion of what they have. She’s unprepared for the soft give of Therese’s mouth, or the little hungry sound she makes. It shoots down Carol’s spine like quicksilver, makes all the pain and fear of the past few minutes transform into a completely different, but no less consuming, tension. She presses a little harder, lips parting, hands finding a home on Therese’s lower back. Therese tips her head up, opens her mouth, and Carol slips inside, letting their tongues glide together. It’s slow, it’s gentle—then it’s hungry.

 _I need her_ , Carol thinks. She feels the answering hunger in Therese’s mouth, notices her breaths coming a little faster. _I need her now._

Their bodies mold together, their kisses evolve in moments from deep, to frantic.

“Want you,” Carol gasps, hands sliding down to her ass, squeezing. “Come upstairs with me. Please?”

Therese makes a soft, aching sound of assent, and then Carol is drawing her toward the stairs. They hurry, but they’re quiet. Carol points out Rindy’s door at the end of the hall, before leading Therese into her own bedroom. She notices how Therese’s eyes shoot toward the King-sized bed with interest, before reaching for Carol again, and kissing her, hard.

Carol moves them toward the bed, coaxing Therese to sit on the edge. A moment later, she’s lowering her onto her back. Therese goes easily, malleable, wanting. She scoots further back, and Carol shadows her movements until they are sprawled across the mattress, mouths devouring. 

_Need her skin_ , Carol thinks desperately. _Need to touch her_.

She starts to push up the hem of Therese’s sweater, waiting only until it’s bunched up under her breasts before she slips down, mouthing over her stomach and ribs, licking and sucking. Therese gasps, arches. Carol slides her hands under the cups of her bra to grasp her breasts, teasing her nipples between her fingers, overwhelmed by their small, warm weight. 

“Fuck,” Carol whispers, “Fuck, you feel so good.”

Therese winds her fingers in her hair, clenching and gasping when Carol pulls down the waistband of her jeans enough to bite her hipbone. Then Carol is dragging down her zipper, and then dragging down her jeans, following their progress, kissing her exposed thighs and knees and calves—and then she is tossing the jeans aside, flowing back up her body.

“Wanna taste you,” she mumbles, nosing up toward Therese’s underwear, drawn to the heady scent of her desire, drawn to the memory of her taste—

And then, all at once, she’s on her back.

Carol blinks, startled. She’s gazing up into a face of angelic perfection, into eyes slightly crinkled, to lips turned in a soft, adoring smile. Therese bends to her, kisses her and lick the bow of her top lip, before whispering, “I wanna taste you, too.”

Carol nearly chokes on surprise and arousal. When Therese pulls back, her eyes gleam with intent, just before she starts quickly, methodically, stripping the clothes off Carol’s body. Palpitations erupt in Carol’s heart, her skin lighting up like a field of firecrackers, her sex clenching in anticipation. It would be easiest to say that her reaction is purely lust, brought on by the intoxicating nearness of a woman whose reserved sexiness keeps lowkey blowing her mind.

But it’s more than that.

The way Therese looks at her, the sweet dimples, the happy confidence, the memory of how she stood up to Harge—all this makes Carol feel shivery in a way she hasn’t in… maybe ever?

Whatever it means, it steals all the language from her brain. Her tongue feels like it weighs ten pounds, and if she’s not careful she’ll start drooling. How could she not? When Therese is reaching for the button fly of her slacks, tugging them down, bending to kiss the join between her thigh and pelvis? How could she not, when Therese’s little murmuring moans vibrate against her tender flesh, and send a pulse straight between her legs? Therese casts her slacks aside. She kisses Carol’s ankle, and then her knee, trailing up her thigh, nuzzling and nibbling and kissing as she gets closer—

Carol shivers, an intoxicating blend of physical sensations, arousal, and… nerves.

“You don’t—” she shifts restlessly, “You know you don’t… have to do that.”

Therese chuckles against her. Carol’s hips twitch. 

“I really, really do,” Therese tells her, without even a shadow of uncertainty. She pauses with her mouth just above Carol’s panties, looking up the length of her body to meet her eyes. And her eyes are ferocious. “Do you want me to?” she asks.

Carol swallows, says, “I just don’t want you to—to—feel… pressured. If you’re not ready.”

Therese answers by nudging her nose against the thin material of what Carol thinks must be completely soaking underwear. Therese breathes her in—actually fucking _breathes_ her in—and moans. Carol whimpers.

Therese says, “I’ve been reading about this.”

“You—I—what?”

_Great job, Ross. Top rate word making. Jesus._

“You know,” Therese replies, still nuzzling her, fingers now sliding up and down her thighs.

Realization strikes. Carol drops her head back with a groan. “I’m gonna kill Abby.”

A delighted chuckle. “You said that last time,” Therese replies, and darts her tongue against the sodden crotch of Carol’s panties; darts, and then presses, and the pressure alone makes Carol shiver. “As I recall, it all worked out well for you.”

Carol clenches the sheets, hips churning, wanting more—but Therese pulls back. Therese looks at her with an imperious little smirk. “What’s your problem with fanfiction, Carol?”

Carol huffs in exasperation, “I—I—nothing. I don’t have a problem with it. I just think it can give women… unrealistic ideas.”

A cocked eyebrow, a look on There’s face that says, _‘Do tell?’_

Carol huffs again. She’s so wet she’s afraid she’s going to slip right off the bed. If Therese doesn’t touch her soon she’s going to—

“It’s unrealistic!” she blurts. “Women don’t—they don’t taste like _honey_. They don’t taste like fruit. They don’t taste like… like… nectar of the gods! They taste like women, and it’s awesome.”

Therese says dryly, “I think you may be missing the point of a well-timed metaphor.” 

Carol rolls her eyes. Therese crawls back up to her, kissing her mouth with a slow heat that, after a few moments, starts to distract her from her anxiety. Therese puts a hand between her legs, cupping her. Carol sighs with pleasure, pressing up into her touch. Therese says, “Tell me more… about how women taste.”

She times her question with the increased focus of her fingers, which have found Carol’s clit through her underwear, and started rubbing. Carol throbs, grabbing her hips and squeezing as she cants toward her. This she can handle. Therese touching her like this is already familiar. No risk of disappointing her. No risk of losing complete control of her body under Therese’s tongue.

But—

“Tell me,” Therese whispers, licking the seam of Carol’s lips, and then nibbling her chin.

Carol pants, says, “It… it’s different. There are—there are variables.”

“Like what?”

“Like—like—how aroused you are. Where you are in your cycle. When you showered last—I don’t mean cleanliness, though I guess—hygiene—” Therese rubs harder, cutting her off with a gasp before she struggles back toward coherence. “Hygiene matters, of course, but tasting a woman at the end of the day—when she’s rich and warm and—” Carol moans; Therese moans. Carol closes her eyes and whimpers, “It’s good. And it matters—where you’re licking her. Her clit. Her lips. Inside. It—it changes.”

Therese has started breathing a little harder, and however overwhelmed Carol feels from this conversation, it’s obvious that Therese fares no better, the weight of her kisses deep and coaxing, like she wants to pull the words out of Carol and into her own body. She sucks on the ball of her shoulder, trails over to her ear and whispers against it, “Keep going—”

And then starts crawling down again.

“Every—every—” Carol stumbles for a moment, because Therese’s hands are reaching for her underwear, and Therese’s mouth is on her stomach, “ —woman tastes different. And the same. You—God, Therese, you taste better than anyone.” Therese _hmms_ in pleasure; drags Carol’s underwear off; slips her knees apart and settles between them, on her stomach. “Want to taste you now,” Carol gasps, “Want to—”

“Later,” Therese promises, and bends her head, and licks. 

It sends a shockwave through Carol’s body, down to her toes and up to the tip of her head. It’s far less tentative than she was expecting. Not the, _‘Can I do this?_ ’ glancing flicker she was prepared for. Therese’s tongue is wet and warm and its holds still for a moment, like a sponge trying to soak up the flavor. And she moans. Carol feels the vibration from her lips. Therese licks again, slowly, across the top of her vulva, against the hardness of her clit. Carol shivers; Carol watches her. Therese does this a few times, and then pulls back to look up the length of Carol’s body. Their eyes lock.

“Do you want to know how you taste?” Therese whispers.

Carol whines, belly flexing. Therese wraps her arms around her thighs, holding her still, and says, “Delicious. You taste delicious, Carol.”

She bends down, probes a little lower; Carol tenses, thinking that if there’s any flavor that will turn Therese off, it’s this, the full, heavy flavor at her core. But Therese dips her tongue inside her, gentle and exploratory, and hums. She drags her tongue across her opening, once, twice, ending with a dart against Carol’s clit, which shoots through her like lightning.

“You’re so wet,” Therese murmurs, and looks up at her again. “Is it okay?”

Carol swallows hard, nods. Her vision is a little blurry. She doesn’t think she’s ever reacted like this to being touched. It’s almost frightening. Therese runs her tongue in a wide circle over her clit, and Carol spasms.

“Is my tongue wet enough?”

Carol blinks in total bafflement, looking down at her again, “Is it—what?”

Therese pinks. “I read a story where a woman’s tongue was dry and it didn’t feel good. So I just meant—”

Carol huffs a laugh. She reaches down to Therese’s face; cups her cheek with one hand; slides the other into her hair. Therese watches her closely, and it occurs to Carol that as game as she clearly is for this experience, perhaps her young lover needs a little encouragement after all.

“It’s wet enough,” she says dryly. Therese’s blush deepens, and this, her shyness, gives Carol back a modicum of control. “It feels good, Sweetheart,” she says. “Really good. The—the circles—those were good.”

Therese’s eyes flash with purpose. “Like this?” she asks, and then she is gliding her tongue in wide circles again, all around Carol’s clit, tighter and tighter on each rotation, so that in the end she is flicking delicately at the hardest, most sensitive part of her. It pulls a shudder through Carol’s body, makes her clench Therese’s hair in both hands.

“Yeah,” she gasps. “Yeah, that—that’s good.”

What follows then is a floating universe of pleasure, pulled across minutes like taffy, sticky and sweet and overwhelming. Carol manages to give instruction in the beginning, but as Therese finds a confident rhythm, as her exploratory strokes transform to focused attention, Carol loses the ability to speak. Or at least, to speak coherently. She is fuzzily aware of herself making sounds, and occasional words, of praise, of exultation, of need. When Therese seals her lips around her clit for the time, gently suckling, the noise Carol makes is halfway between a whimper and a sob. When Therese takes her advice and drags her tongue up and down in rapid fluttering strokes, Carol curses like a sailor. Everything Therese does shows her inexperience, shows her learning as she goes, shows how messy and novel it is—and also how transcendent. And it’s amazing. Amazing for its imperfection. Amazing for its newness. Amazing, because it’s Therese.

At some point, Therese lifts her mouth away. Carol blinks her eyes open, disoriented, and looks down to find Therese watching her. Her lips are red, swollen, wet. Her eyes are on fire. A moment later, Carol feels the tips of her fingers, circling her entrance. There’s a question in Therese’s eyes. Carol nods, almost frantic, and Therese’s slides two fingers into her. She lowers her mouth again, and Carol gasps, startled by the instant intensity, by the sharpening pleasure in her cunt and in her clit. Carol grabs at the bedcovers under her, tilting her hips toward that perfect, hungry, devouring mouth.

“Faster,” Carol gasps. “Your—your tongue—f-faster.”

Therese obeys at once, tongue fluttering rapidly up and down, fingers pressing deep and stroking in a way that makes Carol thrash.

“Oh, fuck. Yes—yes—like that. Oh, Jesus, that feels so good, just like that, don’t stop—”

And she may be babbling, but she doesn’t care, because Therese is licking faster, harder, and Therese is moaning against her, little sounds of unbearable delight. And she doesn’t tire, and she doesn’t stop, and Carol can feel her release now, a pulsing flood that moves toward her, that spreads through her pelvis in widening gyres, that finds it locus in that spot that Therese keeps licking, licking and sucking, right where she needs it, right there—oh… _fuck!_

She’s hit by a storm surge. It tears through her in pounding waves, and Carol sobs for breath. Her hips shunt forward into Therese’s mouth, toward that exquisite pleasure. Therese’s free hand grips her thigh and holds her down, and Therese’s fingers inside rub and stroke. And her mouth doesn’t relent. Carol’s eyes roll back, spine bowing as she keens. It feels so good; Carol can’t remember the last time it felt this good, so intense, but so easy, so all-consuming and— _safe_.

It only lasts a few seconds, but to Carol it feels like ages of bliss, and even after the crest has passed and Therese at her urging has pulled her mouth away—even then the aftershocks keep her thrumming along, nerves tingling, body alight. Therese’s fingers inside her stop thrusting, but the pads rub gently against swollen flesh, so gently, until with a totally unexpected jolt, Carol comes again, choking out Therese’s name as her sex clenches four, five times.

“Good girl,” Therese murmurs.

Carol shudders from head to toe—and then falls limp. With eyes closed, she floats through the endorphin cloud of her release, and is only dimly aware of Therese pulling out of her. A few moments later, she feels a weight along her side, and turns her head toward Therese, who is there to greet her. Their lips meet, slow and worshipful, and Carol can taste herself. Carol parts her lips, and Therese licks softly inside, sharing her flavor until Carol almost swoons.

“You’re incredible,” Therese whispers.

Carol chuckles hoarsely, finally finding the strength to open her eyes and look into the bright green eyes of her lover, full of warmth and awe. 

“I think it’s the other way around, Darling,” she murmurs. 

Therese grins at her, a naughty grin, and says, “You see? No harm in a little fanfiction.”

Carol blurts a laugh. She rolls toward Therese, and tastes her smile.

<><><>

Carol is dead asleep when something starts to pull at her awareness, dragging her through layers of warmth and comfort and Therese’s body curled around her back—

“Mommy?”

She blinks a few times, trying to reorient herself in the just-woke-up fog. Rindy’s little face appears before her, her daughter standing by her side of the bed looking at her curiously. All at once Carol is wide awake, and thanking the gay gods that she and Therese had the wherewithal to put on pajamas before falling asleep.

“Hey, baby,” Carol says, lifting up so she can reach for Rindy’s face, stroking her hair out of her eyes. “You okay?”

Rindy is still frowning, and even in the darkness Carol can see that she is looking over Carol’s shoulder, toward the other shape in the bed.

“Are you and Trez having a sleepover?” she asks.

Carol swallows. When Harge showed up earlier, when he saw Therese and realized what her presence meant, he knew exactly what to say to fill Carol with guilt. But Therese responded so courageously to him, was so unintimidated, and so it was easy to brush aside any problem he saw with her having a date over to their house. Now, once again, Carol feels a twinge of shame and regret. She has been so wrapped up in the joy of Therese—she hasn’t thought much about whether or not it was a good idea for her daughter to realize she is dating someone.

But she refuses to lie to her.

“Yeah, honey. We’re just having a sleepover. Remember how I said at dinner we were driving Therese into the city in the morning?”

“Oh,” Rindy says. She chews on her bottom lip, eyes switching back and forth between Carol’s face and Therese behind her; she’s clearly working something out. At last she asks, “Can I be in the sleepover, too?”

Carol hesitates. Rindy often climbs into bed with her in the early morning, and ordinarily Carol would already be lifting her up. But now—

Suddenly, she feels Therese moving behind her, and looking over her shoulder at Rindy’s small figure by the bed.

“Hey, Rindy,” Therese says. Her voice is quiet and calm. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Rindy shrugs, watching Therese with those same big, serious eyes, before all at once she seems to make a decision and asks, “Can I sleep with you and Mommy?”

Carol tenses, wondering how Therese will react, but the woman behind her doesn’t flinch. “Of course,” she says. “Come on in.”

Carol, amazed and overwhelmed, sees the bright look of relief in Rindy’s eyes, and feels her own relief go through her in a wave. Soon, Rindy is scrambling up into the bed, Carol helping her, and then she snuggles up into Carol’s arms. She’s got one of her stuffies with her, and the lion’s fuzzy head tickles Carol’s nose.

“There we go,” Carol says, scooting Rindy right into the nook of her body, and conscious of Therese snuggled up behind her, a sandwich of warmth that makes her feel both unbearably happy, and slightly nervous. She glances at the digital clock on the bedstand. 2:47 a.m. They’ve still got a few more hours of sleep before they’ll have to get up, but she’s wide awake now, hyper conscious of the step she’s just taken. And what Harge would no doubt think of it.

Luckily, Rindy tends to fall asleep easily in Carol’s bed, and tonight is no exception. Within five minutes her daughter’s breathing is deep and even. But Carol can feel that Therese is still awake.

Therese murmurs, “I can go sleep in one of the spare rooms if you like.”

Careful not to disturb Rindy, Carol cranes her neck around enough to catch a glimpse of Therese’s face. “Don’t you dare,” she says, just as quiet. “I… want you here.” 

She turns back around, gazing into the sleep-flushed, doll-like beauty of her daughter’s face; she strokes the apple curve of one cheek, and behind her, she feels Therese. Rather than backing off, Therese has molded more completely against her back, and starts running a soothing hand up and down Carol’s arm. Carol thinks of the hours before they fell asleep. It took her awhile to recover from what Therese did to her, and even then she felt sleepy and weak. It was that sleepiness that infused her, when she rolled Therese beneath her. The love they made then was slow, and deep, Therese gasping into her mouth as she filled her with three fingers, stroking in and out like a gentle tide. The first orgasm rolled over her; the second followed close behind. For the third, Carol slid between her legs and licked her and sucked her, til her slim body locked up for one searing moment, and then collapsed in tremors of bliss…

“Are you all right?” Therese asks.

Carol comes back to herself with a blink; feels the heat in her cheeks. She looks down at Rindy again, and remembering, heaves a sigh. Finally she admits, “I’m not sure I thought this through. She’s going to have so many questions tomorrow… Harge was a monster, but he may not have been entirely wrong about… this part of it.”

Carol is worried how Therese will take this, but her hand keeps gently stroking. She says after a little while, “Maybe I shouldn’t spend the night, when Rindy is here? At least at first?”

It’s a reasonable compromise, but Carol hates it. “And put another limitation on when we can see each other?” she demands.

Therese says nothing, and her silence proves she feels just as unhappy about it. Carol reaches around for her, weaving their fingers together and bringing her hand to her lips. She kisses her wrist, her fingers—remembers the feeling of those fingers inside her. Remembers the feeling of returning the favor, of how free and uninhibited Therese was, coming apart under her touch.

“We’ll figure it out,” Therese assures her.

Carol says, “We didn’t even talk about when I’ll get to see you again.”

She finds herself dreading the answer, and is incredibly relieved when Therese answers, “I have Monday off.”

Carol’s body relaxes. She says, “Harge has her that night. I could come to you?”

Therese nuzzles closer, kissing the back of her neck. “I’d like that. I’m going to write down my schedule for you. I mean, even if we can’t spend the night together, there will be days we might be able to get together for a little bit. You know, if you’re coming into the city anyway.”

Carol determines to find many excuses to come into the city.

“That sounds perfect,” she says. She turns Therese’s hand over, kissing the center of her palm. “You’re perfect,” she adds.

Therese releases a little sigh of peace, burying her nose against Carol’s shoulder. She says, “Don’t worry about Rindy. Or Harge. It’ll be all right.”

“Of course, Darling,” Carol agrees. And wishes with everything in her soul for it to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have asked what's going on with my writing mentorship program. We've officially reached the stage where all of the mentees present their novels in an agent showcase. This means literary agents come and look out our "pitches" and then let us know if they want to see the rest of the novel. The hope is that as a result of this process, you get a literary agent, which is an important step in getting a book deal. So far I've gotten a couple of requests, and will hopefully get more over the next four days. The showcase closes on Monday.
> 
> All of which is to say--I'm a nervous wreck. I would appreciate all the encouragement you have on offer, even if it's just to say you liked this smutty chapter!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time jump...

Therese is packing up her bag, looking forward to grabbing lunch, when Professor Bernstein calls her up to his desk. She’s getting an A in his class, got an A on the paper he just handed back, and yet an adolescence spent under the suspicious eye of adult guardians has left a toll on her, and her heart thumps with anxiety as she approaches the desk. He is shoving papers into his briefcase. Therese’s a mustard stain on his tie. He looks up at her over his glasses.

“Fine work, Ms. Belivet,” he says. “Very fine work. Integrate my suggestions and you can send it out for publication.”

Therese is careful not to show the weight of her relief, but she does smile. “Thank you.”

“You saw the link I posted about the Summer Institute in Amsterdam, right?” Therese nods. He looks at her pointedly. “And are you planning to apply? Based on that paper and your course load this term, I gathered you were leaning toward the international concentration?”

Therese says hesitantly, “I—I’ve been thinking about it, yes.”

“Well, then, the program is three weeks. Amsterdam is an amazing city—everyone should go at least once. Obviously I will write you a letter of recommendation, and so will Prof. Smith, I’m sure. Applications are due February 17th. That’s just a week away.” Therese nods again, aware that her eyes are wide. He gives her another assessing look, and then snaps his briefcase shut. “Well then,” he says. “Have a good day, Ms. Belivet.” 

Therese mumbles her own goodbyes, and waits until he’s vanished through the door to straggle out herself. She walks for a few minutes, exiting the building and heading in the direction of a Halal cart two blocks over. Last weekend’s snow storm has left the streets covered in ice and slush, and she’s walking against the wind, which strikes her exposed face like a thousand needles. She reaches into her bag for the beanie she stole from Dannie over Christmas, and pulls it on before taking out her phone. She deliberates for several moments, questions herself, before shooting off a text:

_/ Bernstein said he would write me a rec for the institute /_

_/ The one in Amsterdam /_

_/ I think I told you about it?/_

She stares at the screen for a moment, nearly kicking herself for the awkward words, and then shoves the phone back in her pocket. The Halal cart looms before her, and her stomach growls. She orders the chicken shawarma with extra hot sauce, stamping her feet and rubbing her hands together in an effort to stay warm. She needs to stop forgetting her gloves, it’s fucking freezing.

She’s just outside the library, scarfing food as she goes, when she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. It takes her a minute to get it out, and then she can practically hear Carol’s voice in the words she reads.

_/ I remember. That’s wonderful, Darling! I’m so proud of you /_

Therese takes advantage of a group of undergrads coming out of the library, slipping in before the door closes and striding toward the elevator with shawarma in one hand, phone in the other.

_/ You’re going to apply, right? /_

Therese rides the elevator up to the fourth floor, relieved to find her usual spot behind the BJ-AP section is free. She waits until all her things are situated to respond to Carol’s text.

_/ It’s expensive /_

Carol’s answer comes a minute later.

_/ Don’t worry about that right now, Therese. Just apply. See what happens. /_

_/ It’s really competitive anyway so I might not get it in /_

Carol sends her a gif of Moira Rose looking dismissive, and Therese blurts a laugh. Someone at a nearby desk glares at her. She sinks deeper into her chair, still smiling, wishing suddenly that she was with Carol now. She can’t think of anything better on a cold February day than to be wrapped in Carol’s arms, devoured by Carol’s kiss…

_/ Are you coming to the bar tonight? /_

About thirty seconds later:

_/ I’ve got that Parent Council meeting at Rindy’s school tonight. It should be done by eight. I don’t think I’ll have the energy for the bar after listening to parents squabble for two hours. But I thought I’d drive into the city after? Spend the night at your place? We’d have the morning together… /_

Therese feels a flutter of joy that entirely outweighs the disappointment of not seeing Carol until the middle of the night.

_/ Yes, please. Use your key. /_

Carol’s response comes a few seconds later:

_/ Miss you. /_

Therese’s stomach swoops with pleasure—and then a moment later, tears prick her eyes. Her and Carol’s schedules have been at complete cross-purposes this week. They haven’t seen each other in eight days. Most weeks they manage to see each other at least twice, and that _never_ feels like enough. This week has been almost unbearable, and knowing that Carol feels it, too, makes her both relieved, and longing.

_/ miss you, too. see you later /_

Therese sets down her phone, heaving a sigh. She reminds herself that in the six weeks they’ve been together, they’ve done well. And Spring break is less than a month away. She’s already agreed to let Carol whisk her off for three nights to Abby’s beach house in South Carolina. It’ll be her first vacation in… ever? Three whole nights with Carol. Four whole days. With this very encouraging thought, she opens her laptop, and sets to work.

<><><>

“I’m just sayin’, you could spare one evening a month for your oldest and dearest friend. Just cause I’m not giving you orgasms doesn’t mean I’m not important.”

“Dannie,” Therese sighs.

“And look, if you needed me to give you orgasms, I could do it. I could do the shit out of that. I’m not saying I’d like it, but for you, to keep this friendship alive? Done.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Except I’m pretty sure Carol would track me down and castrate me. If she’s as butch as you make her sound, anyway. Which I wouldn’t know. Cause I haven’t _met her_!”

The McKinley is quiet, even for a Wednesday night, otherwise Therese is pretty sure Tommy would have already showed up to shoo Dannie off the bar stool. As it is, he’s been hanging out for the past forty-five minutes, commanding Therese’s attention whenever she’s free of customers. She likes having him here, despite the current guilt tripping. And she can hardly blame him for that. They haven’t hung out in three weeks, and that only happened because Carol had to cancel last minute when Rindy got the flu.

“Look, Dannie, I’m really sorry. I know I’ve been a shit friend lately. I just—”

“Oh, I know what you just,” he interrupts. “You ‘just’ got your membership card to the Carol’s Pussy Club and you are getting your money’s worth.”

Therese raises an imperious eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I am.” She leans toward him on the bar, lowering her voice, “‘Cause you know what, Dannie? She _is_ as butch as I make her sound and she lets me fuck her on every surface available and no one in their right mind would pass that up. Sue me.”

“Ha!” Dannie cries, his indignant performance evaporating as he grins, tipping his beer at her. “Now _this_ is what I’m talking about. Don’t hold back, T—tell me all about how Carol has turned you into a top, you ho.”

One of the patrons down the bar calls out, “Hello—yeah—another round over here!”

Therese gives Dannie a look, and just before she goes tells him pointedly, “I think the accurate phrase is ‘power bottom.’ I’ll be right back.”

His delighted cackle follows her down the bar to the small group of—lawyers? Therese is guessing lawyers—who seem a little miffed at having had to wait five seconds for her time. Two Negronis, a mojito, and a double shot of Redbreast later, and Therese is slipping a miserly tip off the bar and turning back toward Dannie.

But Dannie is not alone.

Dannie is chatting with Abby Gerhard.

The first thing Therese feels is a bolt of panic. The second thing she feels is shame for panicking. The third thing she feels is panic again, because Dannie and Abby are talking to each other, and they’ve both got huge grins on their faces, and when she rejoins them, those grins land squarely on her.

“Therese!” says Abby. “Good to see you again! I hardly recognized you with your tie on.”

Therese blushes, stumbles, “Hi, Abby.”

“So you weren’t bullshitting me!” Dannie cries, pointing between Therese and Abby with his beer. “You’re really Carol’s bestie.”

“The one and only. Though my primacy has been usurped of late.”

“Yeah, join the club,” Dannie agrees.

Therese clears her throat, trying to get her bearings. “I didn’t realize you were here,” she says. “Can I get you something? A martini?”

Abby takes a seat next to Dannie. “Sure.”

Happy for something to do, Therese grabs a martini glass from the freezer and takes down the vermouth and gin. She’s aware of Dannie and Abby watching her as she portions the liquor into the mixing glass with ice, and starts to stir.

Abby tells Dannie in a conversational tone, “You know, Carol just raves about Therese’s martinis. Best she’s ever tasted.”

Dannie snorts a laugh. “Yeah, I think Therese has similar sentiments about Carol.”

Therese throws him a glare. Abby’s teeth gleam with her smile. “I like him,” she tells Therese, and then, looking at Dannie, “I like you. I think I’m gonna invite you to my party.”

“No shit?” Dannie says. “Will all the lesbians tolerate me? I’m told I’m very extra.”

Therese strains the liquor into the martini glass, passing it across the bar. Abby says, “I have an eclectic friend group, I’ll have you know. But there’s a price of admission.”

“Go on.”

“ _I_ make sure Carol shows up. _You_ make sure Therese shows up.” 

“You strike a hard bargain,” says Dannie. “This one is busier than God. But I have a plan.”

“Do tell.”

“We use each other’s friends as bait.”

“Genius,” Abby agrees, nodding sagely. “What do you say, Therese? Can I lure you to my party with promises of Carol all dolled up?”

“You don’t have to lure me, Abby, I’d be happy to come to your party,” Therese replies, waving aside the credit card that Abby tries to pass her.

“You’re comping her!?” Dannie exclaims. “I never get free drinks.”

Therese gives him a droll look. “I’m still trying to win her over,” she says.

Abby’s smile is delighted, and Therese feels a twinge of pride, like she’s just scored a point in a very intense tennis match. “When is the party?” she asks.

“It’s my birthday party,” Abby replies. “The 27th. That’s a Saturday.”

Therese frowns. She always works on Saturdays. Abby’s eyes narrow, as if anticipating her reluctant apologies. Therese thinks better of it, says with wide eyes, “I’ll try to get the night off.”

Abby’s nod is satisfied. “Good. And you,” she looks at Dannie. “If you can get her there by seven, I’ll even let you bring a date.”

Dannie scoffs, “Are you kidding? And lose my chance to score a sugar daddy? I bet your eclectic friend group is teaming with rich queens.”

“You’re not wrong. Though the richest ones are unfortunately straight.”

“Careful,” Therese advises. “You’re inviting a monster into your house. He’s been known to turn straight people gay by osmosis.”

Abby throws back her head and laughs, and Therese smothers her own pleased smile. Another point. 

“Honey, if Carol’s constant, well-fucked smiling is any indication, I’m not sure you were ever really straight.”

“To the queers!” Dannie cries, lifting his bottle.

“To the queers!” Abby echoes.

Therese feels like she’s just born witness to the origin story of a criminal partnership. Dannie and Abby take to each other with gusto. The hour crawls past nine and a fresh crowd comes into the bar, and though Therese is suddenly much busier, it’s clear Dannie no longer needs the entertainment. She checks in on them when she can, and though it makes her a little nervous to think of the stories Dannie might be telling, there’s also a warm feeling in her stomach. She and Carol come from such different worlds, from such different backgrounds. The fact that they can’t see each other often means that they have yet to really interact with each other’s friend groups—something that Therese has secretly dreaded, fearful of how she’ll be perceived by New York elites. But seeing Abby and Dannie get on so well, seeing how unpretentious Abby is, and how comfortably Dannie responds to her in turn, gives Therese hope.

They hang out until just after eleven, when Abby reluctantly announces that she has work in the morning. Dannie, too, decides to call it a night, and after they’ve gone the rest of Therese’s shift goes by in occasional busy spurts and dull lags. She thinks about a project that’s due this weekend. She thinks about Bernstein’s offer to write her a letter of recommendation. He’s a bit of a giant in the academic field of accounting, so it’s a significant boon. If she wants to go.

If she can afford to go.

With airfare and housing and the price of the institute itself, the costs would be upwards of $5,000. That’s almost three months of net wages, a third of what Therese has managed to put away in her savings over the past five years. And she’s never touched her savings. She’s horded it like a dragon in a lair, always on guard for the day disaster strikes, and she’ll need it most. How can she justify taking out that much money to go to Amsterdam?

Then again, how can she not? It’s an incredible opportunity, not just to learn, but to make connections. And while the actual work part of it would be as boring as the rest of her graduate program, she’d have time to explore the city on her off hours. God, the _photographs_ she could take! Just thinking about it gives her a thrill of excitement.

Maybe she can apply for a grant? If she can find time to apply for a grant…

She’s serving some banker his third Johnnie Walker Blue, daydreaming about the streets of Amsterdam, when an errant thoughts captures her completely:

Carol, in Amsterdam. Carol, with her.

It’s a ridiculous whim. Carol can’t just abandon Rindy for that long, Harge would blow a gasket. And Carol has her own work, after all. Besides, why would she want to come along on a trip when Therese would be so busy for most of it? It wouldn’t be fair.

But Carol… in Amsterdam. Eating at restaurants and cafes. Walking the streets hand-in-hand. Making love every night and waking up together every morning… Therese finds herself carried away by the perfect, consuming thoughts. 

At 12:30, just before her shift ends, Therese checks her phone. There’s a text from Carol from 10 o’clock, saying she’s going to bed and to please be safe on the subway. Therese’s blood warms. She thinks about Carol, asleep in her bed. She gave her a key early on, when they realized that this strategy would allow them to still sleep together and wake up together, even if they only had time in the morning for breakfast. It helps, because on nights when Carol has Rindy, Therese doesn’t sleepover. They’re giving it another month before they explain things to Rindy, and Carol insists that she’ll have to talk to Harge about it first.

This makes Therese uneasy. She understands where Carol is coming from. Harge is Rindy’s father and he ought to at least be informed about who is in his daughter’s life. But Therese doesn’t trust him. Carol seems adamant that he is a good person and a good father, but when Therese thinks of the way he was in the foyer that night—the anger, the arrogance, the contempt with which he looked at Therese… It was all so troublingly familiar.

That said, there’s been no blow up since. Carol worried at first that she hadn’t heard the end of things, but apparently Harge hasn’t brought it up again, and though he’s been colder with her these past six weeks, he’s also refrained from any outright accusations. The divorce is nearly final, their lawyers just have to finish some paperwork related to the division of assets. Carol insists everything will be fine. 

She finally leaves the bar at 1:30, and the subway ride has her back in front of her building at 1:49. Inside her apartment, Carol has left the kitchen light on for her. Therese takes off her shoes and coat, shuts off the light, and uses her phone to light the way to the bedroom. She can see Carol’s form, wrapped in blankets and curled on her side in the bed. Therese’s double mattress has nothing on Carol’s California King, but there is an undeniable pleasure to the two of them having to crowd close for warmth. They tend to wake up entangled (though that’s true at Carol’s house, too). Right now, nothing sounds better, and Therese, exhausted, can’t wait to fall asleep with Carol next to her.

She strips out of her clothes, trying to be as quiet and careful as possible as she gets her pajamas out of the dresser, pulls them on, and then slips into bed. But years of having a daughter wake her up in the night have conditioned Carol to sense the change, and she shifts in bed.

“Therese?” she asks, sleep rough.

Therese whispers, “Hi. Go back to sleep.”

“C’mere,” Carol says.

Pleased, Therese crawls into her arms, warm and safe and gathering her immediately close.

“Was gonna stay up,” Carol says. Her eyes are closed. She’s still mostly asleep. “Was gonna… jump you.”

Therese snorts with amusement. “You can jump me in the morning.”

“Mkay,” Carol mumbles. Her body starts to relax, but then— “Wait,” she says. Her eyes blink open, as if she has just remembered something. Therese looks at her expectantly, taking in the perfect planes of her face as she clearly struggles toward coherence. After a moment she says, “Kiss me.”

Therese chuckles again, bending to place a gentle kiss on Carol’s mouth. Carol hums against her, and the kiss deepens, though it is still gentle and unassuming. Sounding just a little more awake, Carol says, “Found that thing in your drawer.”

Therese is momentarily confused—and then she remembers.

Her face goes hot and red.

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh,” Carol repeats, mouth curving in a lazy smile, eyes slipping shut again as she wraps an arm around Therese’s waist and scooches her closer. Their bodies align; their legs hook together. “Didn’t know you… wanted that.”

Still blushing up a storm, Therese tries for cool. And fails.

“I mean, I don’t—it’s not like—it was just something that—you know, I just thought—”

Carol’s low chuckle interrupts her rambling.

“Your first class is at 9:00, right?”

“Uh—um—yeah.”

“Okay.” Carol’s hand starts trailing up and down her back, a gesture clearly meant to soothe, to relax. “Let’s go to sleep. I know you’re tired.”

Well _now_ she’s not! Now she feels fluttery and warm and aroused, and full of visions that she had only barely started to entertain.

But Carol is slipping off to sleep again, and her slow, even breaths are a compelling sedative. The past week has been brutal, and sometimes Therese feels like the four or five hours of sleep she gets a night might as well be nothing. Part of her wants to wake Carol up, to make love to her now, to let the desire Carol has sparked sweep them up. But she’s just… so… tired.

<><><>

She wakes to a flooding sensation, to something warm and wet between her legs, to pleasure spooling out into the farthest reaches of her body. At first she thinks she’s dreaming, a delicious dream, but then she feels silky hair trailing over her thighs, and she hears a low humming sound of delight. Even as she crawls toward wakefulness, she keeps her eyes closed. Doesn’t want anything to intrude on this, this perfect feeling. She becomes aware that she’s naked from the waist down, that her shirt is pushed up over her stomach. Carol’s tongue flutters against her, sending a pulse of need through her clit and into the aching center of her body.

“Carol,” she sighs. “Carol…”

“Mmm,” Carol groans, hands sliding up her torso, under her shirt. Fingers plucking at her nipples til her back arches off the bed. “Did I wake you?”

It’s such a shit-eating thing to say that Therese would laugh—except then Carol’s tongue plunges inside her, and those fingers tweak her nipples a little harder, and lust burns through her like a forest fire.

“Oh God,” she gasps. “Oh God, please—”

“Relax,” Carol says, tongue moving against her in slow, tender licks. “Wanna make you come…”

Therese shivers, arching again. One of the hands stays playing with her nipples. The other slips out from under her shirt. Therese senses it reaching for something on the bedside table. Confused, she looks—and then whimpers with need. 

“Do you want to?” Carol asks, flicking her tongue against her in a pattern so rapid and sweet that Therese jolts. Carol looks up at her with those cat eyes deviously gleaming, and adds, “Only if you want to.”

Therese nods almost violently, even as she rambles, “I—I—I’ve never—”

“Shhh,” Carol soothes. “I thought not. Where did you buy this one?”

“Um—uh—a place on West 4th. It looked… it looked good.”

Carol laughs throatily. Carol kisses her between her legs, sucking, messy, and it drags a cry from Therese’s throat. Therese watches, panting, as Carol drags fingers through her sex, then uses her slick to lubricate the dildo.

Therese picked it because it wasn’t intimidating. Not too large. Not too realistic. In her continuing forays into fanfiction, she has encountered whole subgenres about women with cocks. This in itself is pretty arousing, but the writers tend to imagine these cocks as thick as anacondas, and this—this is _not_ arousing, to Therese. The first time she had sex with Richard, she was barely wet, and he was bigger than anyone she’d been with before. It _hurt_ , and even later when she learned how to prepare for sex with him, she always winced in the beginning.

It made her confused and frustrated with herself. Weren’t women supposed to want boyfriends with big dicks? Wasn’t that ethos constantly being shoved down girls’ throats? No pun intended. Well, Therese hadn’t liked it, and so when she saw this dildo, made of a soft and pliable silicone, no thicker than three fingers—it looked perfect. She imagined Carol using it on her, and nearly melted right there in the store.

But that is nothing to how she feels now, as Carol looks up at her from between her legs; as Carol slips the toy down, teasing it against her entrance. Carol’s gray eyes are stormy with lust, her mouth wet and swollen, tongue licking her bottom lip.

“Are you sure?” Carol asks.

In answer, Therese lifts her hips forward, beseeching, and Carol slides inside.

Therese’s eyes roll back. Afraid of accidentally tearing Carol’s hair out, she grabs the sheets instead, desperate for something to hold on to. It’s so different. It’s different from being with a man. It’s different from Carol’s fingers. It’s different, and it’s good, so good, better than good—

Carol starts to move, slow, easy strokes that spear Therese with pleasure and want. She moves her hips, rocking into the rhythm Carol has set, nearly screaming when Carol bows her head and takes her in her mouth again.

“Oh fuck,” Therese gasps. “Oh fuck.”

Carol lifts her mouth long enough to ask, “Is it okay?”

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—please, don’t stop!”

Another rakish chuckle, and then Carol is licking her in earnest, stroking in and out, angling the toy so it rubs against the front wall of Therese’s cunt. The combination is earth-shattering. She feels as if her body has simultaneously dissolved, and bloomed with new life. She can hear a wet squelching sound—it would embarrass her if she weren’t so turned on, and the way Carol keeps moaning against her, the way Carol’s hips churn against the mattress as she seeks some relief—well, how can you be embarrassed when something feels this good? Therese gives herself over to it. Lets herself feel it, all of it.

 _Eight days was too long,_ she thinks blearily. _Too long without her. Can’t do that again. Need her need her need—_

“Carol,” she gasps. “Carol, c-c’mere.”

Instantly, Carol is flowing up her body, covering her, taking her mouth in a hungry kiss. Therese kisses her back, almost frantically, needing it like this. In the past six weeks she has learned that she can’t always come from oral sex. At first this embarrassed her, distressed her—but Carol wasn’t fussed at all. Carol told her that different women needed different things, and there was no hard, fast rule. What mattered was that it felt good. What mattered was that Therese got what she needed. And Therese has realized that most of the time, what she needs, what she wants, is Carol inside her. That deep, intimate connection. That feeling of safety that comes with Carol covering her body, rubbing her clit, fucking her inside.

Carol keeps moving the toy, in and out, deep and slow. Therese wants her closer. She lifts her thigh against Carol’s center and her lover makes a soft sound of gratitude, grinding down. She’s only wearing panties, and Therese can feel how wet she is. She makes sure that every lift of her hips toward the toy also lifts her thigh against Carol, and it goes like this, slow at first and then, after a few minutes, faster, urgent.

“You feel so good,” she gasps. “Carol, you feel so good.”

Carol nods desperately. “So do you. Darling, so do you, fuck—what—what do you need? I don’t think I can—reach.”

Ordinarily, Therese would need some kind of attention to her clit. But then she looks into Carol’s face, sees the way her eyes have turned glassy, feels the focus of her grinding, and knows that they’re both close. The heat between her own legs seems to sharpen, gathering all at once toward release. She feels herself, tightening on the toy, throbbing against it. She makes a choking sound of bliss as her thighs start to tremble.

“I’m gonna come,” she gasps. Carol’s moan is full of excitement, full of relief. “I’m gonna come, fuck, Carol—come with me. Please, come with me, I—”

Carol buries her face against her shoulder. Carol’s back bows, shudders, and then she’s crying out, muffling it against the bed. Therese has no such recourse. She shouts, eyes slamming shut, heedless of the neighbors who can probably hear her. Somehow, impossibly, Carol keeps stroking, even as she shakes apart with her own consuming pleasure.

By the time they start to come down, Therese feels like her retinas have detached; everything is blurry, and her heart is pounding in her chest as she floats in a sea of endorphins as potent as red wine. She melts into the bed, falling limp, and Carol melts, too. The toy is still inside, and Carol’s hand holds it there, but she doesn’t thrust. Intermittently Therese feels herself fluttering against it, and Carol, too, is fluttering, her body a sweaty heap that trembles with aftershocks.

“Jesus Christ,” Carol pants.

She manages to shift a little to the side, so that Therese isn’t bearing all her weight, and then together they reach down to pull the dildo out. It drops off the side of the bed in their distraction, and Therese giggles drunkenly.

“Jesus Christ,” Carol repeats.

Therese nuzzles into her, reveling in the feel of Carol’s warm breath against her neck. After a little while, she rolls her body, inelegantly climbing on top of Carol and burrowing into her, knees bent on either side of her, arms wrapping under her arms, face in her neck. Carol’s strokes her back and laughs. This is a fairly common position for them, a post-coital effort at closeness and comfort that Carol finds adorable.

“My little koala bear,” she coos.

Therese nods against her, unembarrassed, and Carol laughs again. She runs her hands across her, over her thighs and knees and shoulders and spine. She kisses the side of her head and Therese sighs with contentment.

“We’re never going eight days again,” Therese mumbles. “I forbid it.”

“It has been rather awful, hasn’t it?” Carol agrees.

“I hated it. I was so busy and stressed and I thought if I tried to see you on top of it I would just be more stressed, but I was wrong. Not seeing you was way worse.”

“We’re still figuring this out, Sweetheart,” Carol reassures her.

“I know,” Therese sighs. “I just… I don’t want to go that long again.”

Carol answers simply, “Then we won’t.”

Therese thinks again of Amsterdam. Three weeks out of the country. Three weeks apart. Unless Carol came with her…

But she doesn’t mention it. She’s too shy to mention it.

She shifts in Carol’s arms, lifting her head enough to look at the clock on the end table. Fuck. It’s already 7:45.

“I have to get up,” she grumbles.

She sits up fully, still straddling Carol’s hips. She drags a hand through her hair and stretches her back, and looks down at the beauty watching her. In her ridden-up tank top, hair a golden bramble, mouth still swollen, Carol is a vision of sex. But the way Carol looks at her, tender and sweet—that is a different kind of vision. Something Therese wants in her life, every day.

Carol reaches up to cup her cheek. She runs a thumb under Therese’s eye.

“You look tired, Angel,” she says. Therese pouts, and Carol grins. “Beautiful,” she amends, “Always beautiful. But tired.”

“I feel like my professors have upped their game this term,” Therese explains. “The workload is heavier than last Fall. And Tommy keeps trying to tap me for longer shifts.”

Carol frowns. She runs her hands up and down Therese’s thighs. “I wish you didn’t have to work so hard.”

Therese shrugs. That’s just the way it is. Reluctantly, she climbs off Carol’s body, standing for a moment in the pale light of her bedroom, trying to get her bearings. Carol rolls onto her side, and watches as Therese surveys her closet before deciding, as usual, to pick an outfit after she showers. She’s heading towards her door when she stops, remembering.

“Oh, by the way. Your BFF came to visit me last night.”

Carol’s eyes widen. She sits up. “Oh, God, what did she do?”

Therese laughs. “Nothing outrageous. She wants us to come to her birthday party.”

Carol’s shoulders relax. “Oh. Well. It’s on a Saturday. Do you think you can get the night off?”

“I’m going to try,” Therese promises. Carol gives her a soft look of gratitude, and Therese shrugs shyly. “It sounds like Abby has some pretty high end friends.” When Carol’s brow furrows, clearly unsure where she’s going with this observation, Therese smirks at her. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll score a rich socialite.”

Carol squawks with indignation. She throws Therese’s pillow at her. Therese laughs, dancing out of the way, and through the door—but at the last minute, she peeks inside again, giving Carol a long, sultry onceover.

“Wanna shower with me?” she asks.

Carol practically leaps from the bed.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a tad plot-heavy, but there's still some fluff!

“Hey, Carol, it’s Fred.”

“Fred. Hi. Sorry, I’m just walking into a meeting—”

“That’s fine, that’s fine. I just wanted to give you a heads up. We messengered the papers to Harge for final signatures on Monday and haven’t heard back yet.”

Carol stands holding open the door into the café, but at these words she lets it go, stepping back into the street.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, believe me. People always struggle with this part of it, the finality of it. I sent him an email and hopefully he’ll get back to me by end of day. I just wanted to mention it to you in case you see him. When did you talk to him last?”

“Uh, this morning,” Carol digs through her purse for her vape pen. “He came to pick up Rindy. It didn’t come up.”

“Okay, I just wanted to be sure. Look, don’t worry about it. It’s all in the game. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back from him.”

Carol sighs. She drags on her pen and looks through the window into the café. Maurice, a dapper African American man in his early sixties, is sitting at a little table by the window. He sees her and lifts his expresso cup in greeting. She waves back, says distractedly to Fred, “Okay, thank you. Look, I’ve got to go.”

“No problem! Talk soon!”

Fred hangs up, Carol puts away her pen. Her thoughts are suddenly running riot, and this was the last thing she needed right now. What the hell is Harge doing? Everything is finally wrapped up (the house, the money, the custody) and he decides to start being coy about the papers? _Fuck_.

She tries to massage away a burgeoning headache in her forehead. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to center, to put it aside, to focus on what she’s here for. Then head held high, she walks into the café, all smiles.

Maurice stands at her approaching, pulling out her chair for her, ever the gentlemen. He’s even ordered her a cappuccino, the dear man.

“Carol,” he says, deep voice rumbling. “You’re looking well.”

They air kiss and Carol smiles brightly. “You, too, Maurice.”

“It’s ages since I saw you.” He waggles a finger at her. “I suppose the divorce is nearly over, and now you’re running free, sewing your wild oats.” 

Carol scoffs, but it’s fond. Maurice is an old friend, and her first client. An exquisitely elegant gay man who survived the horrors of the AIDS crisis, he has a seriousness and melancholy about him that sparks affinity in Carol. She, too, was serious and melancholy, when they met. Five years ago she helped him locate a restoration specialist for a French armoire. Ever since then he’s come to her with all his restoration needs. He was one of the first people she told when she decided to leave Harge, and he is one of the only members of those wealthy circles that she actually enjoys spending time with.

“‘Nearly over’ is the operative phrase,” she tells him drolly. “Not over yet. And I’ve just learned he’s holding back the papers, for some reason.”

Maurice frowns with concern, and then makes a little disgusted sound that queer people have perfected over centuries. “What a boorish man he’s always been.”

Carol sighs. “Yes, well, I think sometimes I never saw the full extent of his boorishness—not til I asked for the divorce. We’ve kept things mostly civil this past year, but there have been moments.”

He gives her a kind smile. “Are you very worried about it?”

Carol makes a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no. It’s all power games with him, but he’s got no leverage over me anymore. Even if he wanted to try for full custody, he’d never get it—and I don’t think he’d dare. He hasn’t got the temperament or skill set to be a full-time parent.”

Maurice chuckles with amusement, and some of his concern seems to fade, then shift—into something more pensive and insightful. Carol realizes that he is not just looking at her, but taking her in, assessing her. Suddenly he asks, “Tell me, dear, did leaving Harge take ten years off your age? Even with all this stress—you look radiant.”

Startled, Carol blushes, looking away and reaching for her cappuccino. He’s on the scent at once. “Something has happened! Tell me.”

His tone is stern, but also gentle, inviting. He looks at her in that clever way he has, of seeing through any pretensions a person might erect. Carol’s blush deepens as she takes a sip of her coffee, and when he doesn’t relent, she rolls her eyes in mock-exasperation. “Fine. You’ve caught me out. I’m seeing someone.”

His grin is wide and happy. “I thought that must be it. Who is she?”

“How do you know it’s a woman?”

He gives her a flat look. “Am I wrong?”

Carol laughs. “No, you’re not wrong. Her name is Therese.”

“Therese,” he rolls the French pronunciation over his tongue, clearly approving. “And are you very happy?”

Carol blushes again, but she can’t deny it. “I am. She… You would like her, Maurice.”

“Let me guess—beauty, intellect, charm?”

“In spades.” 

“And perhaps… a little bit of shyness, to complement your more… aggressive energy?”

Carol blurts a laugh, and Maurice’s eyes twinkle victoriously. In a low voice Carol tells him, “She’s aggressive when she needs to be.”

This time he laughs, a deep baritone rumble of amusement and pleasure. He asks, “Does she live in Jersey?”

“No, she’s in Manhattan. That’s the hardest part, honestly—she’s getting her Master’s degree and she works full time, and we live in different cities. We don’t see each other nearly as much as I’d like.”

This seems to interest him. “Really?”

Carol hesitates. “Yes. Why?”

He waves a hand, says, “Nevermind for now. But know that this turn of events makes me even happier about the news I have. And even more hopeful about your response.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you must have guessed I have a motive for wanting to get coffee.” 

With raised eyebrows, Carol teases him, “You mean this wasn’t all for the pleasure of my company?”

“I think you’ll find in the end that the pleasure of your company is a driving factor in what I have to say. I’m sorry, I’m being mysterious. Let me get straight to it, Carol. I’m finally opening my store.”

Carol’s jaw drops. Maurice has been talking about this for as long as she’s known him.

“You’re kidding me!”

He beams, an almost boyish light in his normally solemn eyes. “Not at all. You may perhaps have heard me mention before, a woman who married my father after my mother died. A certain white woman who, forgive me, I think the kids these days would call a _Karen_?”

Carol snorts with laughter. Maurice is so austere; this reference, coming from him, is a delight. She schools her expression, eyes still twinkling, and nods. “Yes, from what you’ve told me about her, she did seem the type.”

“Well, though I am not so unrefined as to rejoice in any other human being’s misfortune, the fact is that she died over Christmas.”

“Oh, Maurice—I. God, I realize condolences aren’t the thing, but—I’m sorry, I guess?”

He chuckles, and sips from his espresso cup, pinky finger lifting in one of those rare outward displays of what a queen he is. 

“Yes, well. I haven’t spoken to her since my father died. I might not even have heard about it except for the will. She of course tried to write me out of everything, but Papa left me the mansion in Connecticut. Along with everything inside. I just got back from seeing it with my estate managers. Carol—” For the first time real emotion seizes his face, his big dark eyes watering as he confesses, “It was better than I could have dreamed. I haven’t been out there, you know, in fifteen years, and I thought she might have sold it all out from under me. It turns out, however, she was a bit of hoarder. All the pieces I remember are still there. The colonial four poster beds and the Civil War era dining table and the Bernhardt living room set. Not to mention the _art_. I can finally do it, Carol. I have an inventory now that could stock a showroom three times over, and I’m done waiting. Henry says sixty three isn’t too old, so I’m taking him at his word. I’m opening my store.”

Carol finds her own eyes brimming with tears (not least because the mention of Henry, Maurice’s fifty-year-old partner of three decades, fills her with unanticipated hope that she, too, might find love that lives that long. Might have found it already). She brushes the tears away, clasps one of his hands that is resting on the table. “Maurice, I’m _so_ happy for you. Have you found a spot yet?”

“I have,” he nods, all business. “A shopfront in Bed-Stuy. I signed the papers on Tuesday, though I don’t anticipate we’ll open before May. There’s lots of work to do to get ready. As I’m sure you can imagine, my stepmother didn’t take care of things very well, so most of the pieces need restoration. Which is part of why I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Maurice, I’d be delighted to help. And I can give you references for other restorers, for anything I can’t handle in time.”

“I’m sure your references would be impeccable. But the fact is, dear, that I’m greedy. I want you to do all of it.”

Carol startles, frowns. She says slowly, “Maurice. That’s… I mean, that’s really flattering, but it sounds like you’re talking dozens of pieces. Something like that would take me months.”

“Not if you had a team of assistants. And not if you come to work for me full time.”

This time Carol can’t conceal her frank confusion. He takes another sip from his expresso cup. There’s a tiny little smirk at the corner of his mouth, a hint at the youthful troublemaker that exists under the trappings of the sophisticated man. Carol flounders for a moment, trying to figure out when a casual afternoon coffee with an old friend took such a totally unexpected turn.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “You want a full time furniture restorer? Or you want to hire me full time for a short term project?”

“Neither,” he says crisply. “I want to hire you full time, permanently, to oversee the restoration of my father’s pieces, and all the future work I bring in, and I want you to manage my store and turn it into the epicenter of antiques shopping in New York.”

Carol keeps staring at him, totally baffled. Not only that, but her heart has started to pound with an emotion she can’t quite define. Is it fear? Is it excitement? He can’t be serious.

“Maurice, I…”

“I realize this is a dramatic offer to make without warning. Henry says I can be a little theatrical when I’m excited. But you see, my dear, it simply can’t work any other way. Now,” he lifts a hand, cutting her off just as she’s opening her mouth to object, “before you start insisting upon your unfitness for the role, let me remind you that I am a very intelligent man and don’t do anything without extensive research. You are, in fact, quite fit for the role. You have a business management degree from Columbia, and while you were with Harge you chaired the boards of several very successful charities. I’ve taken the liberty of speaking to people who have worked with you, and they all describe you as a professional, brilliant woman, and a born leader. Now, I know other people equally qualified to help me run a business, but none of them are experts in furniture. In my research I have found several candidates who fit both those bills, but none of them are actual restorers. None of them have your artistic eye. You are my unicorn, Carol. I can’t take no for an answer.”

He pauses now to finish his espresso, and signal the waiter for another. Carol watches him in stunned silence, completely lost for how to respond. She got into furniture restoration out of love for the work. She hasn’t had a full time job since before Rindy was born. Bed-Stuy is over an hour away from the house in Jersey…

It’s also significantly closer to Therese…

_No, God, stop, you can’t make a decision like this based on where your girlfriend lives. Just, stop. Focus!_

“Maurice, I…” Carol struggles for a moment, caught between terror and gratitude. “Maurice, it’s an incredible offer. I hope you realize I need to… well, think about it a little, and—”

“Of course,” he makes a gesture of acquiescence.

“And, you know… I got into this because I loved the work. Running a business—I wouldn’t even have time to do the actual restoring. You’d have to hire someone else.”

“I’m not looking to take your passion from you, Carol. How many hours a week would you say you spend on your restoration projects right now?”

“Right now?” she repeats, considering. “Fifteen? Twenty.”

“All right, then. I’m going to send you an offer letter, salary, benefits, etc. In that letter I’ll specify that fifteen hours in a forty hour week will be reserved for actual restoration. We’ll figure the rest of it out accordingly. How does that sound?”

“It—it—sounds… generous.”

He smiles dryly. “Well. I’m a generous man. You’ll have the details by Monday. Take a week to think it over. Now, no more business. you haven’t even touched your cappuccino. Or told me when you started letting women give you hickeys.”

Carol’s hand snaps to her collarbone. Fuck, her scarf has slipped down!

“Uh, I—”

Maurice’s eyes twinkle. “Tell me more about her.”

<><><>

“Carol, this is fucking nuts.”

“I know.”

“But you’re gonna say yes, right?”

“I—I don’t know. I have to think about it.”

Abby gives her a disbelieving stare. Carol shrugs, uncertain. They’re seated in their usual booth at the McKinley. Abby’s got a martini, but Carol has discovered that she is now distinctly partial to old fashioneds. She’s turning the tumbler in a slow circle on the table, imagining the care with which Therese made it for her; imagining that by touching it, she is in some way touching Therese—who she misses terribly today.

When Abby speaks again, her tone is gentler than normal, “What’s holding you back?”

Carol stares down at her drink, frowning. “It would be a major adjustment for Rindy, me working full time again. The commute alone, on top of an 8 hour workday? That’s ten hours apart every day. I’m not sure I can do that to her on top of everything else that’s been happening.”

Abby nods seriously, thinking. She points out, “You could move into the city.”

Carol sighs, “Harge thinks we should hang on to the house.”

“ _You_ get the house in the divorce. Harge can suck my dick.”

Carol blurts a laugh, some of her anxiety dissipating. She takes a sip of the old fashioned, the silky, rich flavor sliding down her throat as warm as one of Therese’s kisses. Goddamn, that girl can mix a drink. 

“But seriously,” Abby says. “Let’s be practical. Maurice says he won’t open til May, which means Rindy can finish out preschool with her normal class. And then, she’ll be starting kindergarten in the fall. So she’ll be adjusting to more changes anyway. Vanessa lives in Harlem, so it’s not like her commute would be any longer. She could still nanny. And this way, Rindy would actually be _closer_ to Harge, which is good for her, if not for you.”

Abby pauses her unimpeachably logical assessment, takes a sip of her martini, and then—

“Not to mention… you’d be closer to Therese.”

Carol sighs. “I can’t make a decision like this because of Therese.”

“Maybe not, but there’s nothing wrong with her featuring in the calculations. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be infinitely happier if you lived closer to her.”

Carol imagines an apartment on Madison Avenue, near Therese’s apartment. Therese could come stay at her place after work. And then, down the line, if they stay together…

“Of course I’d be happier,” Carol mutters. “But Therese’s schedule is incredibly busy, and for all I know she appreciates the distance between us—it stops her feeling guilty that we can’t see each other more.” Abby gives her a disparaging look. Carol makes a defensive sounds. “I don’t want to put any expectations on her! She’s always so tired and stressed. I think this could just make it worse.”

“ _I_ think that she’s completely smitten with you and would love being close just as much as you would. Honestly, the fact you two haven’t U-hauled yet is a miracle.”

“It’s too soon for that. I’m not going to be a lesbian stereotype.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

“You know, maybe for once we could talk about _your_ love life instead of mine. When’s the last time _I_ got to mock _you_ for being sweet on someone. This friendship is imbalanced.”

Abby, eyes on her drink, scoffs theatrically. “My love life is perfectly fine, thank you.”

“So you are seeing someone?”

A flick of the wrist. “I’m always seeing someone.”

But Carol notices that Abby is still looking at her drink, eyes deliberately averted. All Carol’s senses go on high alert. She narrows her eyes, and after awhile Abby dares to look up at her. “What?” she demands.

Carol’s eyes widen. “You _are_! You _are_ seeing someone!”

“What? No! Seriously, Carol, it’s nothing—”

“What’s nothing?” Carol zeroes in like a hawk. “There’s something or you wouldn’t be calling it nothing.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

“I’m getting this out of you.”

“Look, it’s not a big deal. I met a woman a couple of weeks ago at a bar, we spent the night together. And we’ve seen each other a couple of times since. It’s casual. Just sex.”

“Tell that to your face. You are straight up blushing, Abby. This is the best night of my life.”

“I hate you.”

But Carol just cackles, utterly delighted to have the tables turned for once. And, deep down, full of a warm glowing hope. Abby dates and hooks up quite a bit, but she _never_ gets flustered over those women. In fact, the last woman who flustered her was probably Carol herself. The idea of her cool, acerbic, no fucks best friend suddenly _liking_ someone new? It’s absolutely fantastic.

“What’s her name? Is she coming to the party tomorrow?”

Abby, who is pink in the cheeks and burying her face in her martini, mutters, “I don’t know. I—don’t know.”

“But you invited her?”

“I mean… yeah. Just—just off-hand, you know, I told her not to worry about it. It’s not a big deal. Anyway, now I’m hoping she doesn’t come, just to avoid you making some kind of scene!”

Carol swallows her retort. She can tell that Abby is veering toward anxiety (further proof that this woman, whoever she is, isn’t nothing), and she doesn’t want her to spin out, so she takes a sip of her drink and shrugs.

“Okay. Fine. Let me know if you decide you want to talk about it.”

Abby eyes her suspiciously, says on a cautious note, “Okay…”

Just then, Carol’s phone chirps. She swipes it on—it’s a text message from Fred.

_/ FYI, just heard back from Harge. He wants his lawyers to review things one more time before he signs. We’ll take this up again next week. /_

Carol grinds her jaw. Of-fucking-course he’s dragging things out at the 11th hour.

“What’s up?” Abby asks.

“Nothing,” she mutters. “Just Harge, being a dick about the divorce.”

“Has he still not signed?”

“No. He wants his lawyers to look again.”

Abby narrows her eyes. “You don’t think he’s gonna pull something last minute, do you?”

“Honest to God, Abby, where that man is concerned, I have no idea. After he met Therese I was geared up for a full on war. But he’s never so much as mentioned her. And he agreed to split assets down the middle, no fuss. And now, he’s pulling this shit. I think he just wants to make me nervous. I mean, what’s the worst he can say to me? ‘It’s over?’”

Abby shrugs, “He’s probably just jealous that you’re moving on.”

Carol nods, still frowning down at her phone. Suddenly Abby says, “Speaking of. Cute bartender incoming.”

Carol’s head snaps up to find Abby looking over her shoulder. When Carol turns, Therese is striding toward them. There’s an instant lift in Carol’s heart. Therese wears her typical work uniform, hair tied back and eye makeup a little smokier than normal. When their eyes meet, she smiles in that sweet, shy way of hers, and then comes to stand by the table.

“Evening ladies,” she says, a hint of flirtation in her drawl. “Are the drinks to your satisfaction?”

“Delicious as usual,” Abby smiles, lifting her glass and draining it. “I was just about to order another, but if you’re about to go on break I’ll wait til you’re back.”

“Don’t do that, Abby, the new bartender is good.”

“Not as good as you, though. I want the perfect martini and you’re the only one who can give it to me.”

“Down, girl,” says Carol.

Therese grins, and then looks at Carol directly. “I was gonna go outside for a bit?”

“Go on,” Abby says, before Carol can even ask. “I’ll hold things down until you get back. But first, Therese—” she levels her with a stern look. “You’re still coming tomorrow right?”

Therese rolls her eyes. Carol doesn’t think Therese would have dared to roll her eyes at Abby when they first met. A lot has changed in two months, and where Therese is concerned, it’s all been for the better.

“Yes, Abby,” she says. “I told you. The new bartender is covering for me. So you should give her a chance. And a generous tip.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Carol is already up out of the booth, and together they walk toward the back of the bar, and the exit onto the patio. They’ve hung out here a few times since New Year’s Eve, and their original confrontation behind the bar was… fraught, Carol always looks at the little patio with a deep fondness. She holds the door open for Therese, who slips out ahead of her.

But the minute Carol follows, the minute the door closes after them, she finds herself pressed up against it. She _oofs_ , and then Therese’s hands are in her hair, and Therese’s mouth is on her mouth, and she’s groaning and dragging her closer. In the frigid air of late February, Carol’s body fills with warmth. The warmth of Therese. She kisses her back with the hunger of three days apart and doesn’t give a damn if anyone sees them.

When they finally break for air, Carol is grinning.

“Well hello, Ms. Belivet.”

Therese smirks at her; starts peppering kisses along her jaw and chin.

“Hi. I’m happy to see you.”

“I can tell.”

“Are you happy to see me?”

Carol chuckles, pulling her into another kiss. “I’m always happy to see you, Darling.”

Therese smiles against her mouth, and for a few more moments they lean against the door, kissing—until at last even Therese’s body isn’t enough to override the cold. Carol takes her hands between her own, rubbing them together.

“Let’s go stand by the heater, okay?”

They share a cigarette, talking about their weeks, and Carol continues to marvel at how much pleasure she gets just from being around Therese. Just from hearing her describe the most innocuous things—a project in class; a particularly snobby customer; a restaurant she wants to try next time they have an evening together. Sometimes Carol is afraid that when she’s with Therese, listening to Therese, she must look like a completely besotted dope. Which, frankly, she is. But to be fair, there are times she catches Therese gazing at her, and she looks a little besotted herself. Much to Carol’s joy.

They’ve been chatting for about fifteen minutes when Therese’s eyes widen.

“Oh, shit, I forgot to ask you—you saw your friend Maurice today, right? Does he have a new project for you?”

Carol hesitates. She doesn’t know why. All day she’s wanted to tell Therese about her meeting with Maurice. Even as she described it to Abby she kept thinking, _I wish Therese was here. I wish I could tell her._

But now, to her own confusion, the words choke inside her. She clears her throat, and smiles, “Oh, it was lovely. Yes, he has some things he wants to work on with me. He’s going to send me more information on Monday.”

Therese beams at her, and the pride glowing in her eyes makes Carol feel distinctly guilty. Though she’s not exactly sure what she’s guilty of. She’s not lying, after all. She won’t know the particulars of Maurice’s offer until next week, and why trouble Therese about it when there’s still so much to learn? Nothing wrong with saving this conversation til Monday, is there? 

“I’m proud of you, love,” Therese tells her, drawing close so she can slip their fingers together.

Carol blushes with pleasure. Therese has only started using pet names in the past couple of weeks, and each one makes Carol feel like she’s won a million dollars. And this particular endearment, ‘love’, always hits harder than anything else. Because they haven’t said ‘I love you’ to each other; haven’t even come close. But surely Therese wouldn’t call her ‘love’ if she didn’t at least think that maybe, one day…

Carol bends down to her. They kiss softly, sweetly, and when they pull apart a few moments later there’s a look in Therese’s eyes, a look she gets sometimes, slightly dazed, like she’s waking from a dream to find the dream is real life.

“Can you spend the night?” she murmurs.

Carol nods; their faces are close enough that it makes their noses brush together. “I can.”

Therese smiles, kissing her again. She says, “I thought maybe we could sleep in tomorrow. I don’t have to be back here til eleven.”

This was how Therese got the evening off for Abby’s party; she took a day shift off the new bartender. Carol wishes she could have just taken the day altogether, as a day never goes by that she doesn’t either have work of school. But Carol doesn’t comment, just brushes their noses together again, smiling.

“Sleeping in,” she says. “How decadent.”

Therese grins into her kiss. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll even make you pancakes for breakfast.”

“Can I lick the syrup off your fingers?”

“You can lick the syrup off anything you want.”

Carol groans, suddenly burning with lust at the image this evokes. She pulls Therese to her, kissing her hard and deep, and Therese’s little chuckle of amusement turns to a whimper as soon as their tongues slide together. As soon as Carol grabs a handful of her ass.

“And—tomorrow night?” Therese asks, a little breathless, “I can stay over, right?”

Abby has volunteered Carol to host her birthday party—she said it was the perfect scheme to make sure Therese would show up. With Rindy at Harge’s, it means Therese can spend the night in Jersey, something that happens rarely. Just thinking of makes Carol pull her even closer, knee slipping between her thighs, hands roaming and grabbing at her like a helpless frat boy.

“You’d _better_ stay over.”

Two nights in a row. It’s unheard of. It’s sublime. It’s—

Exactly what she’ll have more of, if she takes Maurice’s offer. If she sells the house and moves into the city.

If she takes Rindy away from her childhood home…

Carol breaks their kiss, hoping Therese will interpret her little sigh as a sign of arousal, and not of guilt welling up in her again. She presses her forehead to Therese’s, closing her eyes—as much to gain the extra closeness, as to hide the riotous feelings moving through her. But Therese, wise, perceptive Therese, must sense it anyway, for her hands start stroking up and down Carol’s arms, soothingly.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “You all right?”

Carol nods against her. Says, “Yeah. I just… I hate being apart so much.”

Therese’s hands pause for a significant beat, and then start stroking again. “I know. Me, too.”

That almost makes Carol cave. Almost makes her reveal the whole thing. But before she can—

“I think we’ve done a really good job though, you know?” Therese says. “We still see each other. We talk every day. Maybe it’s not perfect but… I for one am pretty happy.” She hesitates. Then asks in a voice that is trying to be casual, and failing, “I mean, you seem happy, too… right?”

Carol pulls back to smile at her, to rub the crease between those lovely eyebrows with her thumb, until it melts away.

“I am, Dearest,” she promises. “I’m very happy.”

Therese smiles, pleased and relieved, color dusting her cheeks just before she moves forward, wrapping her arms around Carol’s body. Carol holds her close, glorying in how perfectly she fits.

 _Oh Therese_ , she thinks helplessly. _If you only knew how happy I really am. And how much more I want…_


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have expressed distress that our ladies have not yet said I love you or moved in together. Remember, they've both got a lot of baggage, a lot of fear. It's not easy to put yourself out there when you're coming out of a bad marriage or were raised in a toxic environment. Give our girls time. I promise they'll get there.

Therese knows she isn’t playing fair, but Carol almost made her late for work today. An innocent kiss goodbye in her apartment morphed into a far less innocent grope against her door, til Carol’s hand was up her shirt and Carol’s thigh was between her legs and they might have gone on like that, rutting like animals, if Therese hadn’t glimpsed the clock on the microwave and yanked away in a panic. Carol looked very pleased with herself as Therese rushed to fix her hair, and Therese had to run for the train, wet and horny and irritated.

Therefore, she thinks a little payback is in order.

She bought the dress on consignment last Tuesday after class. She’d had a brief conversation with Abby at the bar the previous night, when she asked about the dress code for the party.

“I wouldn’t say formalwear,” Abby had mused. “But people do tend to get all dolled up. Imagine you’re on the red carpet for an indie release.”

Therese’s eyes had widened, dread pooling in her stomach, because she had no idea what this meant. Abby gave her a droll look and said, “Just wear a sexy dress, okay?”

And so Therese went shopping. And when she saw it on the rack, this plum-colored dress with a neckline that plunges almost to her belly button, any reserves of modesty she possessed were crushed by the image of Carol, seeing her in it. 

Therese and Dannie take the train out to Jersey together. It’s eight o’clock and the party is in full swing by the time they arrive. They let themselves in and hang up their coats, at which point Dannie does a double take.

“Jesus, T,” he says. “Did you guys have a fight? Are you trying to kill her?”

Therese blushes and grins. She asks shyly, “Is it too much?”

He grins back at her. “It’s A+, doll. You look fantastic.”

Pleased, shy, Therese glances around at the room. There are a lot more people than she was expecting, and music is playing in the living room, and there are flowers and streamers everywhere that, by virtue of their silver and gold color palette, actually look sophisticated. The guests are all drinking and laughing and well-dressed.

“Damn,” says Dannie. “There are some fucking gorgeous men here.”

Therese hasn’t noticed, too busy looking out for Carol and Abby, who she can’t see anywhere.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” she suggests.

No dice there, either. But they do get a drink from a bartender who’s set up shop behind Carol’s kitchen island. A bartender to whom Dannie takes an instant liking, muscle queen that he is. 

“I’m gonna keep looking for Carol,” Therese says.

“Sure, sure,” Dannie allows, still smiling at the bartender. “Catch you later.”

Therese makes a circuit of the living room. She sees a few people look at her, notice her, and tries not to feel nervous under their appraising stares. She belongs here, she tells herself. Yes, sure, everyone here is probably rich, but Abby invited her. And Carol doesn’t care that she’s not from money. And probably no one can tell that it’s a consignment store dress. As soon as she finds Carol, she’ll feel better.

Though, the fact is, Carol did seem a little off last night. Preoccupied. It carried over into their morning together. Goodbye shenanigans aside, they haven’t talked much today. They slept late (Carol, it turned out, didn’t fall asleep until just before Therese got home), and woke up slowly. Therese is at the point in the term where she feels like she will never feel rested again in her life. Exhaustion clouds every moment; only her time with Carol makes her feel truly awake. Carol, too, seemed exhausted when they finally crawled out of bed. As if no amount of sleep was enough. Still, it was incomparably delicious, to wake up like that. No rush. Just them. They showered together, too, and because they were both so drowsy, it was quiet and gentle and decadent. Their pancake breakfast included quite a lot of syrupy kisses, dreamlike in their perfection.

But through it all, Carol wore distraction like a coat.

Therese has tried not to worry about it. God knows there are times she is so caught up in school she barely knows how to make conversation. And yet, she can’t shake the feeling that Carol is keeping something from her. And when Therese has that thought, voices start murmuring in her head, saying things like, _she thinks you’re too young_ and _why would she trust you with anything?_ and _it’s not like you can help her, if something’s wrong._

Still making her circuit of the house, still looking for Carol, Therese fights those voices back. She’s not entirely successful.

She gets all the way back into the foyer, near the staircase, before she hears it: the unmistakable combination of Abby and Carol, laughing. She freezes at the foot of the steps, aware that the sound is coming from upstairs.

Something goes through her in that moment that she has never experienced in her life.

Though she and Carol haven’t talked about it explicitly, Therese knows now that at one point she had at the very least slept with Abby, and maybe even been in a relationship with her. Their friendship has never given Therese the slightest inclination that they’re still romantic, and yet… that laugh.

What if this is what has Carol distracted? What if something has changed between them?

Therese heads up the stairs, her stomach in knots, her heart pounding. She can hear their voices now; knows they’re in the hallway leading to Carol’s bedroom. What will Therese do if she finds them—

But when Therese reaches the landing, and turns, she sees the two women standing with a man, observing the hallway wall. The wall where Carol has hung some of Therese’s photographs.

“Do you see how brilliantly she uses light?” Carol is saying. “The way the ice just lights up around Rindy’s shoes. I was sure that she had manipulated the photo somehow, but she showed me how she did it.”

“It’s very striking,” says the man, nodding pensively and leaning closer to the wall to peer at something. “The composition is expert as well. You say she’s never been formally trained?”

“No, not formally.”

“Hmm.”

“I like this one best,” Abby remarks.

“Oh, that’s my favorite!” Carol gushes. “We saw them playing in Central Park. You know it’s always men at those chess tables, but these women were so beautiful and serious and—Therese asked if she could photograph their hands while they played, and they said yes. There’s something so hypnotizing about the result.”

“She’s making fascinating use of shadow,” observes the man. “It would all seem too dark if the sun wasn’t coming in at that angle. Remarkable.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask her if she’d be interested in doing some author photos,” says Abby. “She’s got such an eye for people—I feel like she’d make all my authors look brilliant.”

“Apparently she didn’t used to photograph people at all,” says Carol.

“Really?”

“I know. I’ve never had such perfects photos of Rindy in my life.”

“You really must introduce me when she arrives,” says the man.

At that moment, their words ringing in Therese’s confused ears, Abby happens to glance over.

“Speak of the devil!” she exclaims.

Instantly, three pairs of eyes are upon Therese. The man’s look is focused, curious. Abby’s is full of delight. But Carol—

Carol’s expression shifts in an instant from joy at the sight of her, to stunned amazement. She tracks Therese from top to toe, eyes absorbing the dress with a look that Therese can only describe as— _feral_. Therese has been looking forward to this moment, but it is utterly eclipsed by her own feelings. And not just the confused, flattered surprise of hearing them talk about her work. No, that practically goes by the wayside, supplanted by the far more urgent realization—that Carol is a wearing a three-piece suit.

Therese gapes at her.

The suit is a smoky gray, not much darker than Carol’s eyes. The vest and the black blouse underneath are unbuttoned to the middle of her breasts, sexy and provocative and somehow classy at the same time. Her silhouette is long and lean as a tiger; her hair is curly gold, half up, half down; her makeup is subtle and natural, pale lip and defined eyes and creamy skin. She looks so fucking gorgeous that Therese can’t breathe.

All at once, Abby is hurrying forward, clasping her in a warm hug.

“You came!” she cries. “I’m so glad. Is Dannie with you? I’ve got a love connection in mind. Come here, come here. I want to introduce you to a friend.”

Therese, who hasn’t even gotten a word in, finds herself led toward Carol and the man. Carol is still looking at her with that expression of devouring hunger. Therese has to pull her eyes away, or she’ll never be able to function. She wants to bite Carol’s exposed collarbones. She wants to slide her hands inside Carol’s trim blazer and pull their bodies together. She wants to—

“Therese,” Abby is saying. “This is Ivor Harkevy. Harkevy, this is Therese.”

“How do you do?” says the man, who Therese just now realizes has a vaguely European accent. He looks to be in his late forties, a slim-figured man with a small mustache, and his smile as he shakes hands is genuine and interested. “I’ve just been admiring your work.”

“Oh,” says Therese, both flattered and mortified.

“You’re very good,” he informs her, gesturing at the five framed photographs on the wall. “Carol says you only do it for a hobby?”

“I—yes,” Therese says, glancing at Carol, who has the faintest smirk on her lips, and whose eyes glow with pride. “When I can find time, that is.”

“This is just a small sample, of course, but they’re all incredibly strong pieces.”

Even after overhearing their conversation, Therese isn’t prepared for his praise. She doesn’t know what to say. Carol interjects, “Harkevy is a visiting professor at Columbia. He’s normally at the Humboldt University, in Berlin.”

“Really?” says Therese. “I’ve always wanted to visit Berlin.”

“Well, I’m returning there at the end of the semester,” Harkevy says. He gives her an appraising look, seems to consider something, and then, “Would you send me your portfolio? I lead a seminar in the months of July and August. Carol says you’ll be in Europe anyway?”

“I—uh—” Therese gives Carol a startled look. “Well, not necessarily. I’ve applied for a program in Amsterdam. I haven’t heard back yet.”

“She’ll get in,” replies Carol fluidly. “She undersells herself, but she’s quite brilliant.”

“When is the program?” asks Harkevy.

Therese, whose thoughts are spinning, clears her throat and says, “The last three weeks in June.”

“Well, then,” he says. “My seminar starts July 11th. And Amsterdam is barely a jog from Berlin. Send me your portfolio. There’s an application process, of course.”

“Of course,” says Therese. “That’s… incredibly generous of you to consider me.”

She feels a twinge of guilt, saying it, because such a trip would be impossible. Even if she could afford not to work the whole summer, she could never afford to live in Europe for three months. Still, that he thinks she’s good enough to apply is incredibly flattering—

“Lots of photographers are over-schooled,” Harkevy is telling her. “They’re so mired in theory and technique that they never achieve anything original. I’m always looking for fresh eyes.”

From her periphery, Therese can see that Abby and Carol are beaming. Harkevy, too, wears a little smile. Therese, afraid that her shock has made her look cold and disinterested, forces herself to smile back, and laughs a little. “Well, in any case—I’d love to hear about the work you do.”

“Of course!” he agrees. “You’ve got a drink, I see, but I’m all out! What say we head downstairs, ladies?”

Therese is deeply relieved when this change takes the attention off of her. Abby loops a hand through her arm and leads them back toward the stairs, and though Therese is rather desperate to touch Carol, just the sensation of her following right behind them is enough to make her think she’d better not risk it.

They head down to rejoin the partygoers, and soon they’re all swept up in the revelry and good food and good drink. Dannie has moved on from his bartender and is chatting happily with a group by the fireplace, who call Abby over. Therese gets introduced all around, and despite her fears that they will judge her and Dannie for not belonging in this crowd—everyone is lovely and warm and inviting. When she introduces Dannie to Carol, he appraises her like a boxer sizing up his target, then grins in a way that says she’s passed the test. This, too, is a relief. The party has been on for about an hour, and everybody is just a little bit drunk. Therese doesn’t like to be drunk, but she figures there’s no harm in catching up a little. The first beer goes down easy, and some of the rollercoaster of nerves she’s been feeling since she went upstairs starts to dissipate.

That is, until she feels Carol’s hand, gentle on the small of her back, and Carol’s lips, brushing her ear as she bends to murmur, “Can I get you something else to drink?”

Therese turns enough to look into her eyes. Their gazes lock, heat sliding between them. Carol licks her bottom lip like she’s parched, and Therese says softly. “Sure.”

Carol’s smile is catlike and pleased. “What’ll you have?”

Therese pauses, still looking at her, still consumed with the fit of that suit and the exposed breadth of Carol’s creamy chest.

“Surprise me,” she says.

Carol’s eyes glitter, and she slips away.

Within moments, Therese finds herself speaking to Harkevy again, and that ultimately is what gets her back under control—because their conversation is instantly, seriously focused on their shared passion. He wants to know everything about her history as a photographer—her influences, what she’s studied, how she picks her subjects. And Therese, in turn, is utterly fascinated by his career. He has traveled all over the world. He has taught, he has practiced, he has mentored. His students have gone on to brilliant careers in everything from photojournalism to fashion photography. Therese is rapt. When Carol returns with a glass of champagne for her, bright and refreshing, Therese is too wrapped up to do more than thank her, and refocus on the story Harkevy is telling about photographing the ruins of Chernobyl in 1997. 

This, of course, captures the attention of others at the party, and Therese finds herself part of a small knot of people, Dannie and Abby included, hanging on Harveky’s every word. When a hand slips around Therese’s waist, and she feels Carol’s body behind hers, she smiles and leans back into her, but doesn’t stop listening. Carol, too, seems taken with the story.

“Aren’t you afraid of your exposure?” someone asks.

Harkevy shrugs. “We took precautions. It was worth the risk.”

“Is that the freakiest place you’ve ever been?” asks Dannie.

A chuckle from the older man, “One of them, surely.”

Abby swats his arm, “Shame on you, H, you make all our lives look boring by comparison! And it’s my birthday! I’m supposed to feel fantastic on my birthday!”

There’s laughter from the crowd, and then someone says, “Well, you _look_ fantastic, anyway.” 

It sounds like a throwaway comment, the sort of thing friends tell other friends, and indeed, no one else in the group seems to give it particular mind. But Therese’s attention focuses sharp as an arrow when she sees—to her amazement—that Abby is blushing.

Therese’s eyes flash toward the woman who spoke. A tall woman, with straight blonde hair and an outrageous amount of necklaces and rings and bracelets, is staring at Abby Gerhard. Therese hasn’t met her yet, but it’s absolutely obvious from Abby’s flustered expression, and the strange woman’s answering smirk, that they know each other. And that it was _not_ a throwaway comment.

The group naturally starts breaking apart. Dannie and Harkevy are chatting now, and Abby is heading toward the kitchen, and the woman, her eyes a glittering blue, follows after her. Therese, still leaning back against Carol, asks, “Who is that?”

Carol’s answer is low and rich and sinful. “Her name is Lou. From what I can tell, she’s the first woman who has actually caught Abby off guard in five years.”

Therese cranes her neck around to find Carol grinning like a fiend. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. She says they’ve only slept together a couple of times, but I’m pretty sure Abby is smitten.”

Therese faces forward again, watching just as Abby and the woman, Lou, disappear into the kitchen. Lou has placed a hand on the small of Abby’s back, a seemingly casual gesture that nevertheless breathes with intimacy.

“I think the feeling might be mutual,” Therese remarks.

Carol’s hand, still resting on her waist, slips further around. Her thumb toys with the endpoint of Therese’s neckline, a dramatic ‘V.’ Carol murmurs, “Yes, well, if she’s got any sense, it’s very mutual. No one who can get Abby’s attention should be foolish enough to let her go.”

Therese frowns. She can hear something in Carol’s voice—something serious and wistful. Therese asks cautiously, “What about you, Carol? Did you let her go?”

A deep sigh. Suddenly Therese has the sense that Carol is not just standing behind her, but hiding. And yet after a moment she says, her voice low and pained. “I did. I didn’t love her, not the way she deserves to be loved. Not the way she loved me, back then. I’ve felt guilty about it for years. I almost couldn’t bring myself to tell her about you, because I felt guilty.”

Though Therese can hear the pain and regret in Carol’s voice, secretly, she’s relieved. Carol doesn’t pine for Abby. Their past relationship isn’t a threat to Therese and Carol. But Therese pushes aside her own selfish feelings, laying a hand over Carol’s where it rests against her. She squeezes gently.

“Imagine if you had stayed with her, even though you didn’t love her? Imagine what that would have been like, for both of you? The way I see it, that would have been something to feel guilty about. What you two have now is beautiful and right. It wouldn’t be possible, if you hadn’t accepted your feelings.”

Carol says nothing for a long moment. Then, her arm slips further around Therese’s waist; she holds her more firmly against her, and murmurs, “Thank you, Dearest.”

Therese feels a warmth in her cheeks, shyly pleased by the deep sincerity in Carol’s voice. All around them are people chatting and laughing and having a lovely time, but in this moment it feels to Therese like she and Carol are on a separate planet—their own world. And in that privacy, that intimate space, she thinks of Carol and Abby, and Abby loving Carol, and Carol not loving Abby, and Carol not loving Harge, and she wonders… who has Carol loved? And is it possible that Carol might love—

“Earth to Therese!” Dannie’s voice snaps her back into the present. She looks to find him and Harkevy looking at her and Carol, both of them smiling. Dannie’s got a shit-eating grin on.

“What?” Therese asks.

“H here says you’re moving to Berlin or some shit?”

Behind her, Therese feels Carol’s warm chuckle, but she rolls her eyes and sighs at her best friend (and winces internally—she hates the thought of disappointing Harkevy by not applying to the seminar). To Dannie she says, “You are such a drama queen.”

Harkevy laughs richly. “It’s my fault, Therese, my fault. I was trying to persuade Mr. McElroy to come visit me in Berlin. He’s never been out of the country!”

Therese and Dannie exchange a look, a look that says, _‘Rich people, ammirite?’_

Therese tells Harkevy with a shrug, “Neither have I.”

Harkevy looks scandalized. “Carol,” he exclaims. “What kind of a cougar are you? Why have you not whisked her away somewhere yet?”

“I’m working on it,” Carol drawls. “This little genius has a very full schedule.”

Therese blushes, wanting suddenly to hide. Luckily Dannie takes the attention off her, saying to Carol, “Look, I’m free if she’s not. I am totally open to having a sugar mama.”

Carol laughs and Harkevy laughs and Therese gives Dannie a _‘Get your own’_ glare, to which he responds with another of his shit-eating grins, holding up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Down girl, just kidding. I know better than to stand between you and what you want.”

“Damn straight,” Therese tells him.

“Apparently not,” he shoots back.

Therese scoffs in exasperation, made worse by the knowledge that Carol is still laughing, totally entertained. And then suddenly someone in the kitchen calls out to the living room—

“Hey! We’re doing flaming shots in here! Abby’s gonna do one! Come on, come on!”

People immediately start filing toward the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ,” Carol says. “She’s gonna burn my house down.”

“I’m not missing this,” Dannie declares, heading over with the rest of the crowd, and Harkevy beside him.

Therese is just about to follow, when Carol’s arm tightens around her.

“Not so fast, Darling,” Carol murmurs.

Her body behind Therese’s is rooted like a tree, and as the crowd around them dissipates, she finds herself as close to alone with Carol as she’s been all night. Therese thinks of Carol’s distance and distraction this morning and last night. She doesn’t seem distracted, now. Carol nuzzles at her throat and shivers flood through her, just like Carol’s voice rumbles through her, “I haven’t even had a chance to compliment this dress.”

Suddenly, the tension that has existed, banked, between them since they saw each other in the hall, flares like a meteor. Therese feels her nipples tighten; feels warmth spreading through her limbs and down into the heavy center of her body.

“Do you—” she struggles to get words out. “Do you… like it?”

Another rumbling sound from Carol. “You look very fine.”

How does Carol make such an old-fashioned phrase sound like the sexiest thing Therese has ever heard? Therese chokes down a whimper, pressing back into Carol’s body, senses alight in the arousing condition of being able to _feel_ Carol, but not see her.

In the kitchen, they hear the crowd whoop like college kids. Carol’s lips caress her ear.

“I really… need to fuck you.”

Therese fights hard to stay standing. She chuckles, but only to mask how completely overcome she is.

“Shall I remind you that you’re the host of this party?”

“There’s, like, thirty people here,” Carol retorts. “We can slip away without being noticed. Come upstairs with me.”

Therese flushes, scandalized. “Carol, no!”

“Why not?” Carol’s voice is a purr. Her finger finds Therese’s neckline, trailing down, touching the curve of her breast.

“B-because,” Therese stammers. “They’d—they’d _hear_ us.”

Carol says nothing for a moment, clearly considering. Therese thinks this will be the end of it, but then, “What about the workshop?”

<><><>

It’s cold in the shop, and even the arousal thrumming through her isn’t enough to overcome it, given the dress she’s wearing. Carol has her pressed up against the door, which is icy against her bare back, and as they kiss Therese fears that she’s going to start shivering for the wrong reason. This may not have been a good idea.

But Carol’s lips are so soft and warm. And Carol’s kiss is so eager. And one of Carol’s arms is wrapped around her, and one of her hands has slid inside Therese’s dress to cup her breast and toy with her nipple, and she feels so good, so good, it just—

“Carol,” Therese finally interrupts their kiss. They’ve left the lights off in the shop, but when Carol pulls back to look at her, she can see the dazed hunger in her eyes. It’s almost enough to make Therese dive back in, but—

“Are you okay?” Carol asks. “Is this okay?”

Her question is so sweet, so genuine. Even freezing, Therese melts. “No, this is good, you feel good, I just—” When Carol continues to look at her, concern deepening in her eyes, Therese admits, “I’m just kind of… cold.”

Carol blinks. She looks down at Therese’s body, at her bare legs and exposed arms, and mortification seizes her face. “Oh, Christ! I’m so sorry! I didn’t think. Darling, you must be freezing!”

Therese tries to demur, “No, no, I’m just a little cold, I—”

“Come here,” Carol interrupts, and pulls her away from the door. Therese finds herself led deeper into the shop, to Carol’s workbench. Carol bends over, comes back with a heavy blanket that she lays on the bench. She urges Therese’s up onto it, about as high as a kitchen counter, and then Carol is taking off her blazer and putting it over Therese’s shoulders.

“Oh, Carol, you don’t have to—”

“Hush,” Carol tells her, and does something else in the shadows that results in a red glow from a space heater about five feet away. It’s powerful; Therese feels its heat almost at once, but Carol isn’t satisfied. She moves in close, wrapping Therese’s legs around her and rubbing her thighs to warm them. “How’s that?” she asks. “Any warmer?”

There’s such tenderness in her voice and in her eyes, such consideration in the way she fusses over her, that Therese feels her heart bloom with a totally unanticipated ache. Feels her eyes prick with heat. Through her go a thousand memories of foster parents and residential homes and even her own mother—who never treated her as gently and thoughtfully as Carol is doing now. And it’s so much, it’s too much. She feels like she might break from everything that’s going through her.

“Carol,” she whispers.

Carol looks into her eyes, her own serious and concerned and then—confused. Does she see the sheen of tears? Does she sense the agony of emotion beating inside Therese?

“Therese?” she asks.

 _Say it_ , Therese thinks desperately. _Just say it_.

But what if Carol doesn’t feel it, too? Or what if Carol isn’t ready to hear it? Their relationship is still so new, their time together still so limited; how well do they know each other, really? Just because Therese feels like Carol is in her blood, just because she thinks of her all the time, wants her all the time, daydreams a future, spread before them like a sunrise—does any of that mean more than that the sex is really good and Carol is really hot and she’s never enjoyed another person this much? Infatuation. It could just be infatuation, right? And if she says something too soon, something… serious—might that ruin everything?

 _Tell her,_ Therese’s heart retorts. _You know what you feel. Tell her._

“Angel, what is it?” Carol asks her.

Therese can’t. She wants to, but she can’t, and so instead she crosses her ankles behind Carol’s back, pulling her closer and taking her mouth again. “Kiss me,” she whispers.

Carol does. But it’s not the passionate fever that Therese was expecting, was in some ways relying on, to mask her near slip. No, Carol takes her face between her hands and kisses her—so gently. So slowly. It feels like a mere extension of the tenderness she has already been showing, and Therese’s skin erupts with gooseflesh. Carol’s tongue slips into her mouth, and it’s not a devouring. It’s a caress, sweet and body-melting and good. Therese whimpers. She reaches between them, for the hem of her dress. Carol’s hands join her, pushing it up, over her knees, over her thighs, creating a bloom of fabric around her waist just before Carol’s fingers slip under her panties.

Their lips don’t separate, but they make twin sounds of relief, breathed into each other’s mouths at the first contact. Carol’s fingers move gently, carefully, mapping out the terrain, testing the wet silkiness between Therese’s legs. Suddenly, warmth is the least of Therese’s worries. Carol’s jacket is wrapped around her, full of Carol’s scent, and Carol’s body is close to hers. Carol’s fingers, firm and knowing, slip against the entrance to her body. She makes a questioning sound, and all Therese can do is nod and gasp.

Carol slips inside; two fingers, easy but tight, hooking forward and holding still, the perfect pressure. Therese sighs with bliss. Her eyes roll back and her neck arches. Carol’s lips touch her neck, trailing all over her, as if she only wants to feel what her skin is like. As if she has no object at all, but to touch Therese as slow and deep as possible.

Therese thought she was overcome before. But when Carol starts to slide gently in and out of her, she thinks for a delirious moment that she might die. Nothing has ever felt like this, so warm and close and good, like being submerged in an ocean of pleasure. She puts her hands in Carol’s hair, toying with the blonde strands. Sometimes, when they have sex, it’s so intense and passionate that she worries she’ll pull Carol’s hair out. But there’s no risk of that now, because what’s happening between them is a different level from passion. It’s a different level from anything they’ve done before—feels like something entirely new. Something she fears to name.

And then, Carol starts talking.

“God, you’re beautiful,” that silken voice murmurs in her ear. Therese whimpers, rocking her hips forward. “When I saw you tonight, I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe you really exist—that you really look like this. That you’re really mine.”

The fingers inside rub slow, hungry circles. Therese sobs Carol’s name, says in a delirium, “Yours… yours…”

“Love touching you like this,” Carol tells her, voice strained, breaths heavy. That word, that galvanizing word, makes flame lick through Therese’s body. “Love how you feel. Love thinking about you when we’re apart and knowing I’m the only one who—”

“Yes,” Therese gasps, reaching for her face, bringing their mouths together again. “You. Just you, Carol—only you.”

Carol groans, growls, starts to thrust just a little harder—but not faster. No, she maintains a pace that is achingly intimate, that refuses to be rushed. The heel of her hand brushes against her clit with every thrust, and it’s not enough, it’s not enough of what she needs, but somehow it’s still taking her there. Lifting her like a breeze lifts a ribbon, tossing her in sensation.

“Feels so good,” Therese groans.

“ _You_ feel good,” Carol tells her. “So good inside, so tight, that’s it, sweetheart, let it feel good.”

Therese tries to lift her hips toward the steady pace of Carol’s fingers, but in the end she feels limp with pleasure, helpless and shivery as it builds between her hips, as it spreads like vines down her thighs and up her belly. Carol wraps her free arm around her, holding her close as she moves. Suddenly their eyes are locked. Therese’s breaths have started to come more rapidly, little sips of air, as the intensity of Carol’s stare makes it all ratchet inside her.

“Like that?” Carol asks. Therese nods, unable to speak, her body starting to tremble. “Are you going to come for me?”

Another desperate nod. Now Carol’s hand is pressing flush against her clit, grinding. A sound of need breaks in Therese’s throat, and she wants to close her eyes, wants to let the bliss wash over her, but she can’t stop looking at Carol. It’s too much, too intense, too good. It’s pleasure and it’s safety and it’s home, _home_ , like she’s never had, never in her life—

 _Tell her_ , Therese thinks. _Tell her_.

“Carol, I—I—”

But then, she loses all ability to speak. Orgasm rushes through her, devastatingly powerful. She shakes apart, dropping her head forward onto Carol’s shoulder and sobbing. Carol doesn’t stop; she rubs and grinds and holds her close, murmuring in her ear the whole time, words, like, “perfect” and “gorgeous” and “so wet.”

The sound of her voice, the feel of her breath, the strength of her thrusting hand, are all enough to transport Therese into a dreamworld of ecstasy. Even after the peak has passed and the aftershocks are fading, she can’t do anything but press into Carol’s warmth and want more more more. More of pleasure, yes, but mostly—more of Carol, who slips her hand free and uses both arms to gather Therese as close as possible.

Only then does Therese realize that Carol’s blazer has slipped over her shoulder, pooling behind her. But between the space heater and Carol’s arms and the flush of her orgasm, Therese isn’t the least cold. Indeed, she can feel the fine sheen of sweat across her skin, and revels in it. It is proof, that this is real. It tells her that she is safe, that she is _here_. And Therese never wants to be anywhere else.

When they pull apart to look at each other, Therese is surprised to see something new in Carol’s eyes. Still that intensity from before, that awe, that delight. But also, something that makes Therese’s heart clench in her chest. Something that looks familiar, and terrifying, and—

“What?” Therese whispers, her voice hoarse, her body trembling for another reason. “What is it?”

“I—” Carol hesitates. Therese can hardly breathe. And then—

“I’m going to move into the city.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering what our fine ladies were wearing tonight: 
> 
> [ ](https://imgbb.com/)
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/NLhffKt)  
> 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little intense in this one, guys.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” grouses Carol, as they walk the fluorescently lit aisles the Tuesday after Abby’s party.

“To take your mind off things,” replies Abby, pausing to select an item off the shelf. She turns the package this way and that, considering, and then shows it to Carol. “What do you think of this one?”

Carol clears her throat. “For _you_ , or for _her_?” 

Abby frowns. “What difference does it make?”

“Uh, _you’ve_ done anal before. Apparently she hasn’t. So it makes a lot of difference.”

Abby considers the plug in her hands as seriously as if it were a life insurance policy, and then puts it back. “Good point. I’ll find something smaller.”

Carol rolls her eyes, half amused, half exasperated. Abby gives her a hawk-eyed look. “What’s up with you today? Is it just talking to Harge?”

“No, I can handle Harge,” Carol mutters. “I’m not worried about that.”

Abby’s look doesn’t soften, and Carol avoids it, because of course they both know she’s lying. Harge’s lawyers have apparently ‘reviewed the papers’ again, but now he wants to meet her for lunch. His text was brief, cold—unnerving. He has Rindy through tomorrow morning, when Vanessa is supposed to pick her up and bring her out to Jersey. Carol knows he can’t just _keep_ Rindy from her, but knowing that he’s currently in possession of the divorce papers _and_ their child makes her feel like a hostage negotiator with no leverage.

And yet, despite all that, it’s not actually Harge that has her in this mood, not really. Abby must sense it, because suddenly she raises her eyebrows in surprise and asks, “Is it Therese?”

Carol heaves a sigh and keeps walking, the brightly colored array of dildos and vibrators making her long for a dark corner somewhere, and a cigarette. Abby follows her, says urgently, “It is. Carol don’t be like this. What happened? You both seemed so happy on Saturday night! And I know you fucked her in your workshop; you’re not that sneaky.”

“We _are_ happy,” Carol retorts, scowling and defensive. “She makes me happier than I’ve ever been!”

“Okay, so… what’s the problem?”

They’ve wandered into the BDSM section, and the influx of black leather, if not the materials themselves, gives her senses a rest from all the color. Carol comes to a stop beside the wall of floggers, and, sighing, looks at the ground. Abby is uncharacteristically patient as Carol works up the courage to—

“I accepted Maurice’s offer. And I told Therese on Saturday night. About moving into the city.”

Abby is silent for a moment, before at last she asks, “And did… Therese respond badly?”

At that, Carol can’t help a soft smile. She thinks of Therese, sitting on the workbench, legs still wrapped around her, skin still flushed and damp from one of the most beautiful orgasms Carol had even seen. Her young lover’s eyes had widened, before her lips split in a huge grin, and she asked in a voice that pitched high with delight, “Really?”

To Abby, Carol murmurs, “No, nothing like that. She was really excited.”

Abby makes an exasperated sound. “Well then, Jesus, Carol, what’s the problem?”

Carol swallows. There’s suddenly a lump in her throat and she’s angry at herself. Why the hell would she cry about this? It’s so fucking irrational!

“She… she told me yesterday that she’s just signed a lease for another year at her apartment. Through the end of her graduate program.” This time Abby says nothing, and in her silence Carol finds the strength to finally admit what’s been roiling inside her ever since. “I… I was thinking of… asking her to move in with me. I didn’t do it on Saturday because I was a chicken shit and… maybe that made her think that I didn’t want that at all. Maybe that’s why she renewed her lease. Or maybe that’s something she doesn’t want—you know, maybe she was trying to signal she doesn’t want it, by…”

Aware she’s rambling, Carol trails off. She’s lucky that Therese told her about the lease renewal over text—she didn’t have to worry about controlling her expression, only her words, which were of course supportive and enthusiastic and completely absent any of her real feelings.

Abby still says nothing and, Carol flushes with humiliation.

“You think it’s too soon. Of course you do; it _is_ too soon. I’m being such a fucking lesbian about this, I—”

“I don’t think it’s too soon.”

Carol gives her a cautious look. “You don’t?”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Carol, I’ve been teasing the two of you about U-Hauling from the beginning. Is it quick? Sure. But sometimes you know, and the two of you… I think you know.” She pauses, then says carefully, “I do think you maybe want to tell her you’re in love with her first.”

Carol flinches in startlement, about to deny, on instinct. But she can’t. She hasn’t told Abby that she’s in love with Therese. Hasn’t even really told _herself_ that she is, the inkling of it always pushed to the back of her mind with murmurs of caution and restraint. And yet now, having Abby throw it at her feet like this, she realizes—

She’s in love with Therese Belivet.

She’s totally, completely in love with her.

It doesn’t matter that it’s only been two months. That they don’t get to see each other as often as they want. That they’re ten years apart in age and from completely different worlds and completely different backgrounds. It doesn’t matter, because Carol is in love with her.

But right on the back of this elating realization—comes a wash of fear.

Carol looks at the ground again. “I can’t tell her that.”

Abby scoffs. “Why the fuck not?”

“It could scare her away.”

“You are a _nitwit_. That girl is obsessed with you.”

“Well, that’s not the same as love, is it?” Carol hits back. “She’s having good sex for the first time in her life! That could confuse anybody. I don’t want her rushing into something. She’s barely even out. Honestly, I don’t even know if she thinks of herself as out.”

“Honestly, Carol, like that part of it matters! And if you’re saying you think she’s just infatuated with you, you’re wrong.”

“How would you know?”

“Because of Dannie.”

Carol blanches, totally taken off guard. She stares at her for a moment, and then— “What?”

Abby gives her an imperious look. “You’ve forgotten one of the cardinal rules of the romantic genre, Carol. The best friends always know the score. Dannie and I exchanged numbers at the party. I’m trying to hook him up with Ivor. Don’t look at me like that, they would be adorable together, and H thinks he’s cute. Anyway! Dannie says that Therese is 100% in love with you.”

Carol feels her heart rabbiting out of her chest. Her voice is as weak as her limbs when she asks, “Did… did Therese… tell him that?”

“No,” Abby admits. “Which is part of why Dannie is so sure. He’s known her for longer than anyone and he knows what she’s like in a relationship. He’s never seen her like this, and it’s _not_ infatuation. If she was just infatuated with you, if it was just about the sex, would she be the way she is with Rindy? Would she have cared so much about the hell Harge has put you through? Would she take every chance she gets to meet you, even if it’s just for coffee or lunch? She loves you, Carol. And maybe she is young, and maybe she is a baby queer, but it doesn’t matter. She’s a plucky little thing, and I like her. She’s good for you. So I’m not gonna let you sabotage yourself because you’re terrified of loving someone.”

Carol has stood stunned before this monologue, but the last bit pricks her with annoyance—and anxiety.

“What makes you think I’m terrified of loving someone?”

At that, Abby’s expression finally gentles, becomes, in fact, vulnerable, and she says, “Because _I_ am, Carol… And I know all the signs.”

Then they are both quiet. Quiet, with eyes averted. Carol thinks, _Am I the reason, Abby? Am I the reason you’re afraid to love this woman, Lou? And what is_ my _reason, for being so afraid? Is it Harge? That whole… collapse? Or is it something deeper and older in me, that says I could never deserve someone like Therese…_

At this perfectly inopportune moment, a store clerk arrives.

“Hi, ladies,” chirps the twenty-something. “How’re we doing? Can I help you find anything?”

Carol has to fight not to growl at them to go away, but Abby recovers herself with typical aplomb, responding cheerfully, “Sure can. My friend here is looking to buy a new harness.”

Carol’s head snaps up.

“Of course!” cheeps the clerk. “Follow me!”

They lead the way, and when Abby follows, Carol is forced to fall into step, muttering at her friend, “We’re here for you, not me.”

“We can do both. It’s time to help you level up your game so you can confess your love.”

“My _game_ does not need leveling up,” Carol retorts. “I made her come three times on Saturday.”

“Lou came four times last night.”

“Show off.”

And then, they are standing before a display of every kind of harness imaginable.

“Any idea what kind you’re looking for?” asks the clerk, gesturing. “My girlfriend really likes the Rodeoh brand; we’ve got the brief and the bikini cuts. And then of course your classic buckle ups here. Vegan options on those, in case you don’t like the real leather. Any thoughts on color? Material? I wouldn’t recommend those; they don’t offer great control.”

Carol ignores them altogether. Because despite having no intention of making a purchase today, her eyes have landed on a harness that makes heat curl in her belly. She pictures herself wearing it for Therese. She pictures _Therese_ wearing it for her. Most of all she thinks of being able to fuck Therese while she wears it—maybe from behind; oh Christ, that would be so hot, Therese’s ass is amazing… 

Suddenly, Abby snatches the harness off the rack. “This one?” she asks gleefully.

Carol grabs it from her, blushing. “So? What do you care?”

“That’s a great brand,” says the sales clerk. “And super sexy if you’re into lace.”

“Are you into lace, Carol?” drawls Abby.

“Don’t you have a butt plug to buy?”

“I’m reconsidering,” says Abby blandly. She turns to the clerk. “Where are your anal beads?”

<><><>

She’s just climbing out of the cab outside Portale, sex shop purchase shoved into the bottom of her large purse, when her phone starts ringing. By the time she gets it out of her pocket, she’s worried it will go to voice mail, but at the last second she’s got it at her ear, saying, “Hello?”

“Carol?”

It’s Therese. Carol feels a simultaneous hit of elation, and terror.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

Carol’s heart melts. There’s something about the way that Therese says hi to her, so soft and sweet and like she’s been wanting to talk to her for hours—like she’s so grateful, to be able to talk. Or maybe Carol is projecting?

“I wanted to catch you before your lunch. You know, just… tell you that everything will be all right.”

Carol’s heart melts again. “Thank you, Sweetheart. I’m sure you’re right.”

“And also, I,” Therese hesitates, clears her throat. “I wondered if I could see you tonight?”

Carol frowns. “I thought you had to work?”

“I did. But Phil is trying to get next Friday off so he can go to an exhibition game for some baseball team I can’t remember. He asked me to switch. I know Harge has Rindy and I know Abby has a date with Lou, so I just thought…”

Carol doesn’t immediately answer, because she’s too overcome with the joyful prospect of being together tonight, seeing her again after only a couple of days—

“If you can’t it’s all right,” Therese hurries to amend. “I’m sure Dannie would—”

“Darling, of _course_ I want to see you. When’s a good time? I’ve got to go tour the shop with Maurice at 3:00 but I should be done by 5:00.”

“Come over then,” says Therese, an unmistakable note of relief and happiness in her voice. “I’ll just be home studying today. I was thinking I might order Thai in for dinner. Does that sound good?”

“That sounds… incredible.”

And it does. A night in with Therese. Good food and maybe a movie on the couch. Snuggling and kissing and making love, and maybe, if Carol can work up the courage…

“Great,” says Therese, and Carol can hear the dimpled smile. There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Well, I… I know I should let you go. Don’t worry, okay? You’re way tougher than Harge. It’s going to be fine.”

Carol chuckles, says softly, “Thank you. Thank you for calling me, I—I really needed it, Sweetheart.”

“Carol, I—” Whatever Therese was going to say, she stops short, going quiet for a long moment. Carol hears her take a deep breath, and then continue, “I’ll see you soon, all right? Bye.”

“Bye,” Carol echoes, and the call ends.

Standing on the sidewalk, Carol feels suddenly charged with courage, charged with determination. Fuck Harge and whatever game he’s playing. Fuck his obfuscation and call-dodging. He’s not going to rattle her. She turns toward the restaurant, and lets herself inside.

Harge always was one to show up for appointments ten minutes early, and sure enough, he’s already seated in one of Portale’s booths. Carol points him out to the host, who leads her over to his table. He looks up at her approach, his face a blank mask, serious. He puts his phone aside. Carol takes a seat, accepting a menu from the host and managing a tight smile when he fills her water glass. Harge hasn’t touched his water, or ordered anything.

“Your server will be with you shortly,” says the host. “Maybe I get some drinks started while you wait?”

“Scotch, neat,” says Harge.

“Nothing for me,” Carol replies.

“Have a drink, Carol,” Harge retorts, impatient.

Carol grinds her teeth. So, he’s in a bossy mood. “Nothing for me,” she repeats.

The host goes away, and now they are staring across the table at each other. Carol tries to remember what he was like when they first met. They were even younger than Therese and Dannie. They were rich kids from rich families, and they made a good couple. Everyone said so. She thought he was sexy in a classic, masculine way. He thought she was always the most beautiful woman in the room. They got along well but they didn’t… _see_ each other, perhaps, is the best way to describe it. Or, at least, Harge never saw her. The real her. Perhaps she never wanted him to.

But with Therese…

With Therese, she _wants_ to be seen.

“Thank you for coming into the city for this,” says Harge, over formal.

“I’m not sure what this is,” Carol replies. “You’re dodging my calls. You’re refusing to sign the divorce papers. We’ve been through everything a dozen times, Harge, I can’t understand why at the eleventh hour you’re acting like—”

“Let me get straight to the point,” he interrupts, still cold and professional, like they’re in a board meeting. “I’ve delayed signing the papers because something unexpected has happened at work. Our investors are looking to expand. We’re opening a Boston office and I’ve been tapped to run it.”

Carol stares at him in blank silence. This was… absolutely the last thing she expected him to say. He watches her impassively, and when it becomes clear that he is waiting for some response, she asks, “Excuse me, what?”

“There’s been talk about the new office for over a year, but I just got the greenlight to run it last week. This happened to correspond with when the final papers came in, so you can see how it… changes things.”

Carol’s body tenses. “How does it change things?”

“That depends on you.”

Carol’s nostrils flare. “Would you please stop whatever this is and just tell me what it is you want to say.”

There’s the briefest flash of a smirk on Harge’s mouth, as if he takes pleasure in her exasperation, and then he’s back to cool and calm. He says, “Well, in the interest of our daughter’s well-being, I’m hoping that you’ll consider moving to Boston as well. I’m sure we could find you a house with a proper workshop for your… business. I don’t anticipate a problem with selling the house here, market being what it is. There are excellent schools for Rindy and if we each set up a household within a few blocks from each other, that would certainly reduce her—”

“Harge, I can’t move to Boston.”

Carol’s interruption has less impact than she’s expecting. No temper tantrum. No surprise, even. He gives a calm nod, and the waiter arrives with his scotch.

“Good afternoon,” she says. “Welcome to Portale. The specials today are…”

As she rattles off the list, Carol and Harge don’t break eye contact. When a few moments later they place their orders (cup of soup for Carol, steak sandwich for Harge), they don’t break eye contact. When the waiter walks away, they still do not break eye contact.

“I thought you might say that,” Harge remarks at last. “I think it’s imperative that you reconsider.” 

“Imperative why?”

“For the sake of our daughter.”

“You are making the choice to leave, Harge. You can’t ask me to upend my life for you. That part of us is over.”

“So you’d rather, what?” he retorts. “Have her spend half the year in the city, half the year in Boston? Shuttle her back and forth? Make her split her time between two schools?”

“I _don’t_ want that at all,” Carol says. “Obviously if you insist on doing this then—”

“It’s done,” he replies.

“—then we will have to come up with a custody schedule that suits Rindy’s needs above all. That doesn’t disrupt her school year.”

Again that cold smirk from Harge. “Ah, so you want her to spend summers with one of us, and the school year with the other.”

“If that’s what’s best for her.”

“And who do you think should get majority custody?”

Carol stares at him for a long moment. She can feel him building up to his big move, something no doubt intended to devastate her. He did this when they were married, too. Everything a succession of feints and parries.

“I would hope we can make that decision together,” she says at last.

Harge says, “I’m not giving up my daughter for three quarters of the year because you are too stubborn to move to Boston. If you can’t put your selfishness aside for Rindy’s sake, then I intend to move for primary custody.”

Again they do not blink, they do not bend. Carol can feel a kind of storm surging in her breast, an anger that crawls across her skin and urges her to erupt, to lash out—but she senses that this is what Harge wants.

 _‘You’re way tougher than Harge,’_ Therese told her.

Carol draws strength from that.

“I would hate to see this turn into a custody battle,” she tells him calmly. “And I fail to see how you think such a battle would turn out the way you want it. I have been Rindy’s primary caregiver her entire life.”

“Yes, because you’ve never had a real job,” he claps back.

It takes everything in Carol not to unleash on him, not to snarl and accuse and scream—and in her weighty efforts to refrain, Harge has the silence he needs to carry on:

“The fact is, Carol, that I have the economic means to care for our daughter. I have steady employment, which you do not. In addition, I have family in Boston. You have no one in New York but Abby, and Abby herself is hardly the best influence on our daughter.”

“Excuse me?” Carol’s voice is low and icy.

“She’s promiscuous,” he sniffs. “Out at bars all night. A new woman every other day. If we go to court, I can demonstrate clearly that you surround yourself with unsavory people, who have a deleterious effect on you. Or are you forgetting that I know you go for co-ed _bartenders_ these days? How do you think the courts will feel about you traipsing around the city with Abby? About you _fucking_ college students? How do you think they’ll feel about you bringing those women around our daughter? Letting our daughter sleep in the _same bed_ as those women?”

Harge’s voice is still low, but in it there now seethes a rage and contempt that Carol has never heard from him before. She stares at him, stunned by the range of her own emotions—bafflement, hurt, fury. Disgust. It occurs to her that Rindy must have told him about the sleepover with Therese _months ago_. But rather than raise it then, he has horded it as a weapon. Something to use when the time arrived, which apparently is now.

Carol gives herself several seconds to breathe. She can see from Harge’s face that he was expecting more of a reaction. She flashes on a conversation with Therese, a couple of weeks ago. They were lying in bed, talking about Therese’s childhood—about the men who would abuse and browbeat her mother. Carol had held Therese close to her, stroking her hair as she recalled bouts of a physical and emotional abuse that Therese’s mother could never escape, and from which Therese herself cowered.

Therese said, “The thing about abusers is… it’s a survival game. You spend all your time trying to give them what they want so they don’t hurt you. And sometimes it works, and they leave you alone. But part of how they control you is by being unpredictable. By taking you totally off guard and then telling you it’s your fault.”

Carol stares at her husband, this man who has dictated her life for ten years, who has made her feel small and insignificant and trapped. Well, not anymore.

“First of all, Harge,” says Carol calmly. “I am not some deadbeat who can’t take care of our daughter financially. Aside from my inheritance and earnings from the restorations, I’ve accepted a job running a furniture store for Maurice Washington.”

Harge blinks.

“Secondly,” says Carol. “Your threats to paint me as some promiscuous pervert won’t stand up to the facts. I’m not ‘bringing women around our daughter.’ I am dating one woman, monogamously, and—”

“Like that’ll last,” Harge interrupts viciously. “You’ve never been monogamous in your life.”

Carol sets her jaw, barely stops herself from exploding in a rant that would probably get her thrown out of the restaurant. Still, her look is scathing as she informs him, “If you’re determined to go that route, Harge, I’ll remind you that you had as many affairs during our marriage as I did.”

“I never fucked coeds,” he sneers. 

“Thirdly,” Carol says. “Therese isn’t a coed. She’s a graduate student in the Stern School of Business who’s at the top of her class even though she works full time—”

“At a bar!”

“And that’s another thing,” Carol retorts. “How do you know that Therese is a bartender? Rindy wouldn’t have told you that, so what have you done? _Spied_ on me? How do you think that’s going to look in the courts, Harge? How do you think _any_ of this is going to look? Because I’ll tell you what it looks like to me. It looks like a man who’s angry that his ex is with a woman; it looks like a man who doesn’t want his ex to move on with her life; it looks like a man who’s trying to _blackmail_ his wife into moving to Boston to make _his_ life easier.”

Harge sputters, eyes wide and startled, mouth hanging open like a fish as Carol stands to her feet.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, looking around at the other diners; his embarrassment is obvious. “Carol, for God’s sake, be reasonable and sit down. There’s no need for histrionics.”

“You’re right,” Carol says. She pulls her coat off the back of the chair, watching him coldly. “There is no need. We can work this out amicably, Harge. Or it can be a fight.”

“You’d put Rindy through that?” he demands.

Carol breathes out through her nostrils. This is just like him. God, why did she never realize that this has always been just like him? This is what he does. He makes decisions, decisions with consequences, and then he tells her that the consequences are her fault. Carol shakes her head, amazed at herself, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

“What’s so funny?” he hisses.

Carol ignores the question. She shakes her head again, sweeping on her coat. “You know,” she says, slowly, pensively, “there was a time… I would have done anything. I would have let you bully me, Harge. I would have done what you asked just because of Rindy—because I wanted everything to be easy for her. Easier than it was for me.”

A lump rises in Carol’s throat. She chokes it down, reaching for her purse and avoiding his eyes so he won’t see the brightness of her emotion. “I’ve always dreaded what a divorce would do to her, how it might hurt her, and I let you hold that over me. But no more, do you understand? I’m no good to her, to either of us, if I let you dictate my life—it I don’t pursue what I want.”

She takes out her wallet, reaching in for a twenty dollar bill that she tosses on the table. Tears banished, she meets his eyes again. He looks even more startled than before. “I’m not living against my own grain anymore, Harge. You want a custody battle? You want to take this to court and fight over her and make a mess of her life? Fine.”

“Carol, if you think I’m bluffing, I’m not,” he hisses at her. “I am fully prepared to fight like hell for this. You were the one who wanted the divorce. You didn’t want to fight for us. You didn’t want counseling. You just gave up! And I let you, I didn’t fight you. But this is my daughter we’re talking about, _I_ for one will fight for her. And if I have to get ugly with you to do it, I think you’ll find I’ve got more ammunition in my pocket than you seem to think!”

Carol looks at him in silence. She thinks about the man he was when they met, the young man, foolish, but kinder than this, more hopeful than this. She thinks of the man who held his daughter for the first time, tears streaming down his face. The love he had for Rindy glowed out of him. Of course he’s going to fight for Rindy. Carol will, too. But she never thought they would have to fight each other.

“We might not have ever been really happy, Harge—but we were never ugly,” she says. And then, earnestly, appealing to the man she knows is there, “For God’s sake… let’s not start now.”

Harge grinds his jaw, eyes lit with fury. But for once, he says nothing. It’s a rare enough occurrence, Carol knows better than to waste it. She turns on her heel, marching toward the door with her bag over one arm. She makes it outside, into the brisk air of the March afternoon—and she keeps walking. She’s afraid of what will happen if she stops walking. She is charged now with a completely disorientating combination of courage, and terror. Proud of herself for standing up to him. Horrified by what he might do.

She digs through her purse again, finds her vape pen, and ignores it in disgust. She pops into a bodega to buy cigarettes, hands shaking the entire time. The man at the counter asks her gently, “You okay, Ma’am?”

“Yes,” she says, offering him a tremulous smile as she pays, “Yes, thank you.”

On the street, she starts walking again, lighting the cigarette as she goes and dragging on it hungrily. The rush of nicotine is a harsh relief, and also a release—her tears start to gather. Her stomach clenches with equal parts rage and dread. How could he accept a job in Boston without talking to her? How could he think he can just… dictate her life like this? And Therese—has he been _spying_ on Therese? What would that even mean?

“Fuck, Harge,” Carol growls. “If you hurt her I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

She thinks of calling Therese. Wants to hear her voice, to be soothed by the sound of her breathing. But she has something else to do first.

Carol takes out her phone, and dials Fred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a crazy couple of weeks for me. I'll have news about my writing program soon!


	23. Chapter 23

“Oh God… Oh fuck… Carol, Carol, _please_ —”

Therese feels delirious. Drunk. High. She’s on her knees, fists clenching the sheets, and Carol is behind her, _inside_ her. She has draped herself over Therese’s body, one hand braced on the bed while the other fucks into her with deep, relentless pressure. She drags her mouth all over Therese’s back, her shoulders. She finds the chorded muscle at the base of her neck and _bites._ Therese shudders, whimpering and desperate.

“More,” she gasps helplessly. “More… more…”

Carol’s hand pauses, fingers shifting and tucking together, and then she slides in with four, a burn that makes Therese’s eyes roll back.

This is… not how she expected the night to go.

Carol called her at 5:00. Her voice was choked, but she was clearly trying to hold it together. She told Therese of her aborted lunch with Harge, and canceling the meeting with Maurice for an impromptu strategy session with Fred in his offices downtown. Then, sounding timid and guilty, she’d said, “I’ve got to go back to the house to get some things for Fred. I—I’m so sorry, Dearest; I don’t think I can see you tonight.”

Therese, an overthinker by nature, didn’t need to overthink this. “Can I come to you?” she asked.

Carol made a heartbreaking sound. She said, “I—I don’t think I’ll be very good company—”

“I don’t need you to be good company,” Therese replied. She knew that her tone was brusque—that her rage at Harge was bleeding into her voice, and she forced herself to go on gently, “I want to be with you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Vanessa is bringing Rindy home in the morning, and then she’s got a doctor’s appointment. I won’t be able to drive you into the city for class.”

“I’ll take the train,” Therese said. And then, without hesitation, “Or I’ll skip.”

“Oh, no, Therese, you don’t—”

“I can skip one class, Carol; I’m acing everything.”

“I—I—”

Therese took a deep breath. “Carol… if you need space tonight, if you don’t want to see me, I understand. But if it’s not that, then _please_. Let me come to you.”

This had apparently been the framing Carol needed, for she put up no more fight. An hour and a half later, Therese was letting herself into Carol’s house. She found her in the kitchen, drinking from a tumbler of brandy. Her eyes were red. Therese went to her, held her and kissed her, and Carol kissed her back.

Therese had not meant it to escalate. The kiss was only supposed to be a gesture of comfort. She had ideas about taking them to the living room, sitting them down on the couch. Watching a movie and ordering take out. A night to relax, to be together, to show Carol that she was safe and cared for.

But apparently Carol had needed something different. Their warm embrace, their chaste kiss, deepened, and then escalated, and then there was a fire burning between them, a fire that couldn’t be stopped. If some corner of Therese’s brain thought she should stop it—thought that she should make sure Carol was okay before covering over everything with sex—well, Carol didn’t give her the chance. Carol boosted her up onto the kitchen island, laid her back and stripped off her pants and underwear and went down on her until she was thrashing and delirious.

Soon afterwards, they had stumbled out of the kitchen, Carol directing her body with the ease of an orchestra conductor. They went up the stairs, the rest of Therese’s clothes leaving a trail behind. They landed on the bed in a tangle, where Carol’s need only surged, raging through Therese’s body.

And now—and now—

Carol growls in her ear, “God, you’re so tight. Does it feel good? Tell me.”

“Y-y-yes—fuck, yes, don’t stop!”

“Oh, I won’t stop,” Carol tells her, voice dripping with sin.

Their bodies are sticky, sliding against each other. She can feel Carol’s breasts, her hard nipples dragging across her back. The fingers inside are focusing on Therese’s G-spot, a myth she had doubted until Carol proved her wrong. Every hard press feels like a lightning strike, body-melting in its intensity.

This position is electrifying, but Therese knows herself, knows that her body has a deep-rooted fear of being attacked from behind, and the only way to mitigate that fear is to maintain a connection with Carol throughout. Carol knows this, too. It’s why she is lying over her back. Why she keeps kissing her wherever she can. But Therese wants her voice, wants her to keep talking to her.

“It—it—” she struggles to speak, “—feels so good, Carol.” A particularly deep thrust has her panting for breath. “Feels so good.”

“Good,” Carol purrs. “I like having you like this. Like covering you, feeling you everywhere. I got us something today, Darling. Do you want to hear about it?”

All Therese can do is nod, a sharp jerk of assent. Carol chuckles, says, “I got us a harness.”

Therese shivers, her cunt clenching hard, so close to orgasm that she feels weak with it. “Oh, Christ,” she whimpers.

Carol chuckles again. “That’s right. Imagine what that will be like. Me, wearing that toy for you? Fucking into you nice and deep like you like it? Hands free, roaming all over you.” 

A fresh wave of heat goes through Therese. She is drenched in sweat, trembling, so close but she needs—

She tries to reach between her own legs, to finish herself off. Carol grabs her hand, pulling it away. “No,” she says firmly. “None of that.”

“God, please, please,” Therese chokes out the words, desperate.

Carol’s answer is a chuckle, filthy. “You don’t need that yet, baby. You might not need that at all.”

Therese whines with objection, begs, “No, I—I do, please Carol, touch me—”

She tries to put Carol’s hand where she needs it, but Carol answers by grasping her wrist and pinning it to the bed, her voice in her ear an amused rasp, “You mean you haven’t had enough of that yet, Angel? After everything I did with my mouth? Licking you? Sucking you? I don’t even know how many times you came. Don’t you think your little clit has had enough for one night?”

Therese sobs. Her thighs are trembling uncontrollably now. Braced on her elbows, she can barely keep herself from falling forward into the pillows. There’s no mystery to why Carol is being like this. She has a dominant streak anyway, and of course her lunch with Harge is making her want to exercise control, to feel powerful and strong. What Therese doesn’t expect—is her own completely helpless reaction. The almost terrifying pleasure that she feels. The need, for more of it, more of Carol’s control, Carol’s aggression, Carol’s _words_.

“Please,” Therese gasps. “Please.”

“Please what, Angel?” Carol asks. She starts rubbing in firm circles inside. She sucks on Therese’s shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Keep—keep—” Therese swallows hard. She’s too far gone to feel embarrassment, to feel shame. “Keep— _talking_.”

“Ohhhh,” Carol says. “Is that what you like? You like it when I talk to you?”

“Y-yes. Yes!”

“You like when I tell you how good you feel like this? How wet you are for me? I don’t think you’ve ever been this wet, Darling. You’re dripping all over my bed. Such a messy girl.”

“Yes, I—yes!”

“Have you ever squirted before, Therese? Come so hard you can’t control it?”

Therese pitches forward, face in the pillow, trembling wildly.

Ruthless, Carol slips her arm around her waist, pulling her back up again.

“Answer me,” she says, steel wrapped in silk.

“No,” Therese sobs. “I—I’ve never… done that.”

“I’ve thought before that you might,” says Carol, tone almost conversational. “Sometimes when I’m touching you like this, from behind like this, your G-spot gets so swollen, so full. And then, remember that time you made me stop because you thought you had to pee?”

Therese does remember. She’d hurried out of bed, embarrassed, aroused, and used the bathroom. When she came back to Carol, her lover was smirking at her in a knowing way, had grabbed her and pulled her back into her arms.

“You could have done it that time,” Carol tells her. “It takes determination, you see? Lots of foreplay… lots of patience. Lots of encouragement.”

Therese wonders blearily—is this why Carol went down on her for forty five minutes? First on the counter, and then here in bed? Is this why Carol has been fucking her with her fingers for so long? Has Carol been moving her toward this? Ordinarily the thought would charge her with anxiety, with fear of disappointing. But Carol has done her work well. She’s too overcome, too desperate, for anxiety. And she just wants—

“I’ve never—” she gasps again, unable to finish her sentence. “I’ve never—”

“Shhh,” Carol croons, and then before Therese can prepare, she’s slipping the fingers of her other hand between her legs, finding her swollen and overstimulated clit, rubbing it in slippery circles.

Therese shouts in surprise. One of her hands flies back, grabbing Carol’s thigh, while she uses the other arm to desperately hold herself up. Carol’s fingers inside her are moving with a new focus.

“It takes precision,” Carol whispers in her ear. “It takes time.”

“Please—” Therese chokes out.

Because she can feel it, suddenly she can feel it, that swelling sensation, like her bladder is full, like she needs to pee. A tingling pleasure starts in her clit and deep in her cunt. Something in her flutters with panic, tells her, you need the bathroom, you have to stop her, you—you—

“Oh, God,” Carol groans. “You’re clenching so hard. You sure you’re not already coming, baby?”

“I—I—”

“It’s happening isn’t it? You’re close?”

Therese nods, almost laughs—she feels like she’s been close for hours. Carol licks a stripe up her neck, to her ear.

“Relax, honey. You’re safe with me. All you have to do is let it happen. Let me make it happen.” 

“Carol,” she shudders, “Carol—Carol, oh, fuck, Carol—”

Somehow, it takes her by surprise. One moment she is gasping for air, and the next—she’s coming. A detonation. She buries her face in the pillow, unable to control her choked scream of pleasure and release. She feels the flood of her orgasm, wet and dripping down her thighs. Behind her, Carol makes a sound that is almost animal, overcome. The fingers inside her keep rubbing, until after what feels like eons, she can’t take anymore. She grabs at Carol’s hand, sobs, “Wait, wait—” and collapses forward onto the bed.

Carol goes with her, covering her body. She carefully extracts herself from between Therese’s legs, and then starts running her hands all over her, leaving streaks of wetness behind, kissing all over her back and her neck and between her shoulder blades. She’s gentle but intense, possessive, moaning Therese’s name and whispering to her all the things she needs to hear (beautiful, perfect, delicious, good)—except that one phrase that Therese needs most of all.

“Carol,” Therese is panting for breath, her thighs shaking. “Carol, need—need—”

“Tell me, Angel, tell me.”

“Need to—to see you, baby, please. Need to kiss you.”

She isn’t sure how Carol does it, but a moment later she feels herself rolled onto her back—and away from a considerable wet spot. Carol is leaning over her, her eyes bright with wonder and adoration and—and—that thing that Therese wants so bad. Therese lifts up to kiss her, as if her kiss can draw the words from both their mouths, puncture that last barrier between them. But after the day that Carol has had, the stress and the fear, Therese worries that saying it would be too much. Would overwhelm Carol, or make her feel like she has to say it back when she’s not ready. And so Therese retreats. Again.

But not entirely.

“Carol,” she whispers, breaths still coming heavy, body still shivering. “Carol, come here.”

Carol comes readily, hand in her hair and cradling the back of her neck as they kiss. Her mouth tastes so good, and her body feels so good. Therese somehow finds the strength to wrap her arms around her shoulders, to lift her shaking thighs and wrap them around her waist. Carol moans into her mouth, and Therese has to tell her, has to be brave—

“Love your body,” she gasps, breaking their kiss to nuzzle into her, to lick and suck her throat like a starving person. “Love the way you feel inside me. Love when you touch me.” She sets her teeth against Carol’s collarbone, not too hard, but still possessive, and Carol whimpers. Therese can feel the slight rocking of her hips, can feel the need in her. “Love touching you,” she says, arms and legs grasping her close. “Wanna touch you now.”

Immediately, like a switch flipping, she feels tension enter Carol’s body. Carol pulls slightly back from her, but with her eyes averted, and says in a voice that is clearly trying to sound casual, “Oh, Darling, no. That was just for you.”

Carol pulls back further, sitting up. She runs a hand through her hair, still in that trying-to-seem-casual way, but after a moment of Therese silently watching her, she chances a moment of eye contact, then darts away. She releases an anxious laugh.

“Honestly, Therese, I’m so exhausted after today. It’s all right. We don’t both have to have a turn every time.”

Therese continues to gaze up at her, thinking but not talking. Debating what to do. Part of her is hurt. Part of her understands. In the past, all of her would have demurred, would have accepted and subsided. But something is different now.

Suddenly Carol shifts, as if to climb off of her. Therese puts her hands on her thighs, holding her in place. Startled, Carol looks down into her eyes, and though she has avoided that contact for the past minute, now it’s as if they’re locked together. Therese sees it instantly: the hurt and the fear in Carol. The lostness in Carol. Therese, still weak from the impact of her own pleasure, feels a new charge of energy—which is the energy of protectiveness. She’s not content to be pushed aside.

Hands still on Carol’s thighs, Therese asks softly, “Do you feel safe? With me, I mean?”

Carol’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. Undeterred, Therese puts her hands on Carol’s hips and uses this leverage to sit up. Carol makes a surprised sound, but has no choice but to move with Therese’s body. Therese directs her, moves her, until after a moment Carol’s legs are wrapped around her and Carol is sitting in her lap and Therese is holding her close, looking up into her eyes. Carol’s eyes are so big, so startled, but also—aroused. Encouraged, Therese starts to run her hands up and down her back, soothing strokes.

“I want you to feel safe with me,” she murmurs. Carol makes a soft sound in her throat, like a precursor to tears. Her eyes are watery but she doesn’t cry, just gazes down at Therese. “I know that you’re hurting,” Therese tells her. “Don’t hide from me. Let me comfort you.”

Another of those sounds, louder now, overcome. She looks frightened, but also, so needy, so desperate for what Therese offers, and Therese’s heart pounds like a drum, realizing how important this moment is. She lifts up, kissing Carol under her chin.

“You can tell me, okay? Don’t be afraid. Just tell me.”

Another long silence, tense with the unsaid, and then—

“I’m—I’m—” Carol struggles to speak. “I’m… so… I’m so… _afraid_ , Therese.”

The last words end on a choked sob. Therese nods against her, kissing her shoulder with all the tenderness she feels. “I know, baby.”

“Fred—Fred says he—Fred says Harge will never get what he wants. He says the courts will never give him primary custody but… but they’ll probably split her between us. She’d be gone… six months out of the year. She’d be—I would— She’s so _young_ —how could we do that to her? How can we disrupt her life like that?” 

Therese wraps her arms around her, tugging her closer, and with a sound of relief Carol holds her back. Her body is so strong, so long—arms and legs wrapping around Therese’s smaller form. Therese wishes suddenly that she was big—big and tall and broad, so she could cover Carol completely.

“Should I—” Carol swallows hard, whimpers. “What should I do? Should I—should I move to Boston?”

Therese’s stomach plummets. Everything in her want to scream ‘No!’ But she realizes that her answer would be selfish. She takes a moment, trying to wrestle through her own panicked feelings toward something that will actually help Carol—Carol who is trembling with sobs, pressing into her body, seeking closeness and comfort as her tears drip onto Therese’s shoulder.

“I think…” Therese says at last. “I think it’s too soon to be thinking about that. When are you meeting with Fred again?”

“F-Friday. He says we’ll know more then.”

“Okay,” Therese nods. “Then for now, there’s no use letting yourself spin out with what-ifs. Rindy will be here in the morning, and I promise, Carol, you’ll feel so much better when you can hold her again.”

“What if—what if he doesn’t let Vanessa bring her home? What if he—”

“That’s not going to happen,” Therese tells her. “Think how that would look at a custody hearing? Believe me, I was in the system for years. The courts do _not_ like people who think they can just ignore custody agreements.”

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Carol makes a squeaky sobbing sound. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even—I didn’t even think how… how it might make you feel, all this stuff about custody and—and—”

Therese pulls back, a hand in Carol’s hair so she can gently pull her back as well; so they can look into each other’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” she says firmly. “I’m all right, Carol. I just want to take care of you.”

More tears spill down Carol’s cheeks. Suddenly Carol releases a soggy laugh, trying to wipe the tears away.

“Jesus, I must look—”

“Wonderful,” Therese interrupts. “You look wonderful. You always look wonderful, okay? You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and the kindest, and the sweetest, and the smartest, and everything is going to be work out. All right?” 

Carol looks at her for a moment, and then laughs again, half-embarrassed, half-adoring. “Who taught you to be such a sweet talker?” she asks. 

Therese grins up at her, relieved to see some of the most vibrant distress leaving Carol’s eyes.

“It’s easy with you,” Therese says. Carol rolls her eyes, but with humor. “It’s true!” Therese insists, laughing.

Carol responds by taking her face in her hands, and kissing her. They both moan, soft sounds of relief and pleasure, their bodies seeming somehow to press even closer than before, as if by trying hard enough, they could meld together completely. And Therese wants that. She wants their bodies to be as close as possible, to melt into one. She wants to feel every point of Carol’s body on every point of hers, to trade not just breath between their kissing mouths, but the very essence of themselves. She wants—she wants—

The kiss deepens, slow but somehow urgent at the same time, and Carol in her arms has started to shift, hips twitching against her, restless.

“Therese,” she whimpers. “I—will you—touch me?”

Therese whimpers right back. She licks into Carol’s mouth, just to make her shiver, and pulls away to look into her eyes. “You want that?” she asks gently. “You’re sure?”

The last thing she wants is for Carol to do something she’s not ready for—especially if she’s only doing it because she thinks it’s what Therese wants.

But then Carol is reaching for one of Therese’s wrists, and drawing her hand down between them. Their eyes are locked; Therese dares not look away. She finds her way by touch alone, sneaking into what little space exists between their grinding hips. Carol lifts up just enough that Therese can find the slippery warmth of her opening. She circles her carefully, reveling in the way Carol’s eyes slip closed.

“Oh… Angel…”

“What do you need?” Therese asks. “Do you want me inside you?” Carol nods, head tipped back, lips parting with pleasure. Therese is in no mood to tease her. She glides two fingers inside; she’s so wet it happens easily, and a shudder travels through Carol in response. “Fuck,” Therese whimpers, feeling the silky musculature of Carol’s cunt, gripping her fingers. “Fuck you’re so… _tight_.”

Carol’s hands grasp at her restlessly. Carol’s hips start pushing into hers, no definitive rhythm. She is clearly overcome, a combination of emotion and exhaustion and desire, and Therese knows that she will have to take care of her. Which she is very happy to do.

The angle is hard on her wrist, but she doesn’t care. Instead of trying to thrust in the limited space, she starts crooking her fingers in a constant, rocking, come hither motion that she knows Carol likes. With every movement, Carol’s clit grinds into the heel of her hand.

“Oh!” Carol gasps, fingers gripping Therese’s shoulders. “Oh… oh…”

“Relax,” Therese soothes her. “I’ve got you.”

Carol somehow manages to open her eyes, to look into Therese’s face again.

“I know,” she gasps. “I know you do.”

Her eyes are a little red from crying. There are dried tears on her face. She’s flushed with arousal, and she smells of day-old perfume and warmth and sweat, a combination so intoxicating that Therese’s body tingles from sensory overload. How is this possible? How did this happen? What did she do in her life, what good and righteous thing, that earned her this woman in her arms? Whatever it was, Therese isn’t letting go. She moves inside her, she wraps her close, she reaches for her kiss and hears the desperate sounds she’s makes, that mean _please please please I’m close don’t stop_ —

And Therese doesn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing program update: Over the past two weeks five literary agents have offered me representation on my novel, and yesterday, I accepted one of their offers. What does this mean? The agent now serves as my rep to try to get my book published by a major publisher. 
> 
> This is something I have been working toward for years, and I'm honestly too overwhelmed to even know what to say about it. Thank you all for the encouragement you've offered me over the past few months! Consider this smutty, emotional chapter a thank you!


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